a walking contradiction

There’s something about being a chameleon. Something so somber only the chameleon knows. The chameleon adapts so fast, too gracefully. There is nothing the chameleon cannot handle, but herself. At the end of the day, the chameleon questions her existence, her very core.

What am I really? When does the adapting end, and my individuality start?

She fears for herself. There is nothing to say that is totally hers, for she only adapts, and adapts, and adapts. She is lost in the process and cannot find herself.

Of course, they don’t see this struggle. The chameleon holds it in. 

No one can know.

No one can know.