We are found somewhere in between the struggle of echoing voices of conscience. We are lost in how much of that conscience is our own and how much it is made of what people have to say about us. We hear words echoing in our memory chamber and often the sounds of what we asked of us and what they did get mixed up. We end up blurring all the fine lines. We get so tired of listening to all the voices around, of carrying them on our selves that we actually forget what we were striving for. What is it that we were looking for ? What was the name again ? 'Happiness' ? The concept it self seems so strange to us now. Notes to self that might seem true to other 'selves' as well.