This story begins in the middle, during the point in your life when you’re still trying to figure things out. You’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut, and you are scarcely disappointed to find out that everything is meaningless and human understanding could be defined as all but a figment of one’s weary imagination. This very understanding goes against what you’ve based your principles and personal achievements in life — the only thing you’re genuinely proud of, even if you’re not even that good: the ability to make meaning out of nothing, the capacity to construct a sense of yourself even in a void.
So what else is happening now? You’ve been finding poetry in all the wrong places, in forms it never takes, in simple realities too far fetched from what you’ve deemed it to be. And you are, as you tend to do, writing about yourself in funny second person pronouns.