What do you look for when you're lost yourself?: A fugue in E-minor

So, so very lost. This life is taking me for yet another unexpected ride down a hill on which it seems the kinetic energy that exists now exceeds the potential we had at the start. And so, in denying the laws of physics, my universe will shatter, and all that's left is to hide in your arms. But I think I'm seeing double, and I can't for the life of me tell which is the illusion of my imagination and which will lead to me to a safe reality. But then again, who needs reality? I want to print out the analysis, the way you analyze me. And from your brain functions of x and so forth, maybe your fifth derivative will satisfy my needs. It seems to be an even function, but what if, what if it's odd, it's odd. I must choose a value, please value my life. Math-ridden destiny. Oh, it's all so odd. This mirror is showing me picture I've never seem before, but they're ever so familiar. What are these memories that insist on making me do the craziest of things? Where have I been, what's happened to me that these phobias of the strangest things pop up in corners I never expected? My past lives are riddles that I will not solve. Afterall, how can you answer something you don't believe in anyway? The point is that you're black, you're white, and all my life I've yearned for something grey. Won't you dance with me? Please, let's dance our lives away on that moonlit beach that I can see in the not so distant future over there. Grind your coffee beans and ponder the honey's consistency as it drips into your tea. The bees will sting, but it only burns a while, my dear. I wish you would see that this does mean something. I wish you would read between the lines, my lines, my life. I wish you would read. I need you to study me. If you don't long to know me, I'm all but talking to myself, and then the whole idea of companionship is just too ironic for me to swallow. Time will soothe this, won't it? Time has always stolen my trust and stored it with her friend in some dimension I have yet to fathom. Oh, your faith, my dear, why it's right here with me, but you'll have to try a little harder than that. The keys in my pocket will unlock your world if only you'd put forth the effort I need. The keys, the keys -- you're white, you're ebony. Can you explain why you've obviously taken one soul and split it into two so that I must choose which incomplete thought deserves to take a stab at life? The blood might stain, but it adds character. But in that case, I could use a lot less fiction right now. Will you read, will you read this and know what I mean? Oh dear, what if, what if?