The Hardest Pill

How can I say what I'm like? It's easier to talk about you. Or them. My mother was like peering from the dark and cold through a window to a fire-lit room, full of odds and ends from times that were concrete, decadent with materialism... routine. You can only see the outline of her face turned but you know its radiating warmth, her eyes flashing with an intensity that's sometimes meaningless to you. An enigma, but still you feel steadier on your feet just by looking in. My father was a flat surface, and you know there's something underneath but it's rarely used, much less seen. His voice was a soothing vibration of practicalities, and not much else. But that was enough. My step-father too, a large man with a large capacity to solve everything we'd throw out, a solid mixture of no-bull*****goodness, like it was easy. I was lucky I know. And I've been here and there... There's too many things I'd think was important, that didn't turn out to be, that I thought made me who I was... But I don't feel the connections driving me, knowing ourselves through and through is the hardest pill we can never swallow. Who are you? Instead, tell me where it is you wanna go, and maybe I'll take me with you.