Random Car Ride Poem

What is life? This existentialist null-shit, I can't handle the voices all getting quiet in my head. You're sharing your soul with me, daily exposing, ripping tissue paper open like a Christmas morning monster, and I am rubbed raw by the newness in texture, the fabric of something I asked for in sincerity but didn't understand. These jeans are too tight. 60 degrees in February. My thoughts ramble on like a flow I can't control, nothing is everything and the mundane becomes my light, and there lies my fear, when the chaos subsides, I want the storm to come back and swallow me again, so that I don't have to look in the mirror.