The truth that I can't escape my own glare. No matter how much I want to be inside and well lubricated, the crevice of fully ensconced life seems to elude me, as in, I'm alluded, as in, well, chronic state of mirror reality takes a toll, and who the fuck am I paying?
Maybe I haven't yet accomplished descriptive justice. Maybe if I drill down it will help. Maybe if I become hyper self-aware, I will somehow become less self-aware? Is that a logic? Is that relief, my friend? What? Mind you, what? The fuck.
Because the dude watching me is me, and me-a-stranger. Me-a who the fuck are you, type stranger. As in, he knows me far too well in far too short a time. And his truths are easily accessible and there, almost like a hum. A hum. Not distorted AM radio wave. More refined. Focused even.
And it depends on whom I'd like to chronicle on any given day. Whether I'll be a focused laser of pure evil or a neurotic philanderer with a penchant for incisive self-cutting.
We have a long life. Is that relief, or something else?
Why ask questions. Better to assert through the face of reality sometimes, to reach through the liquid glass and pull at whatever delusion is there. Better for survival. Better for digestion. Better for making friends and enemies. To laugh and pull at it and let it snap back like a long rubber band, and hope, meanwhile, deeper down, that lurking realities do not ingratiate themselves too presently.
I'm a dull idiot.
I've fallen into a life that isn't my own. A life I never meant for myself.
I haven't figured out what I haven't figured out, and I know it. I haven't even figured out what I figured out already.
I'm standing at a precipice that's really a puddle. And I'm trying to get wet by jumping. And the only thing that happens is that I stare. Hard. Intense. At the puddle. And I sweat. And a drop of sweat splashes down every once in a while to tell me that it is summer.
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