This is the way the world goes out not with a bang but in a cloud of delirium.
Everyone is starring beyond eyesight, contacted plastic bubble wrapped individually warped perspective conform-fitted perception;
Epiphany precipitates out from under our feet, as we float through life in a cloud of delirium.
Amplitude modulation headphones on ambient distraction, advantageous vantage point cleanses emotion unaware as we stare blankly beyond self into the steam ridden cloud of the third person;
What is lost is living what is lost is meaning what is lost is life as an opportunity to live with meaning. Seduced by shades of gray in an overcast sky, existing without emotion drained out of our system by white noise, cleansed of scarlet fire or brilliant yellow or soulful soulless swallowed by depression deep blue that Picasso thought fitting to articulate the depths of loneliness;
Third person perspective of the anonymous hippopotamus invisible gigantic larger than life third person;
Squashes a sumo with a sigh spirit wrangler air dangler hyper critical ultimate belittle-er third person;
Can’t touch it no I can’t touch it. Can I torch it? I want to torch it, to singe my hand on the liquid fire, melting match, feel the scorch i inflict on the monster in my closet;
Slay the dragon, it ain’t gunna happen, if I kill mine woud you kill yours too? I whisper to the incandescent glow emanating from the moon light and in that one second of solitude my eyesight is restored as precisely that, my eye sight, and I see within my fight my bark my fight drained and faded but still simmers like a spark lit stove heated useless dangerous without cooking substance;
Sparked in the depths of self efficacy and in that moment of clarity silence sings a lullaby to the animal cry of the child whose wonder hides from me protecting me under the jaded resurrected knowledge of experience I use as a ladder to reach the removed disconnected cloud of delirium.
Why I pray for an honest prayer– why I wish my reflection distorted in the mirror would wobble like my face floating on a sun lit river moving as one with the air blown hair wading on the wet slippery surface because that is real and temporary and shifting and real and ideal and temporary and shifting and fuck the fixed ideal fixated idealized look third person glamorama;
Who cackles in nightmares who sleeps in my fears and cozies up with crossed fingers behind her back and a jagged blade next to her closest friend closer enemy, my aspirations.