One can manoeuvre around one's own self half the time and just be plain oblivious the other half but still find yet another ‘extra’ half or whole to be thoroughly miserable. What does that tell us about ourselves? What does that really tell us, except for the fact that we have too much time on our hands. Idle time for the psyche to construe more layers than we can deal with, up to the point where we split in half or in thirds or more. The trick is to keep busy and not to find or give yourself the time of considering the gist of things. The thick of it.
Every thought endures a process that siphons you straight to the same end. An enchanted figment where the rainbows touch the ground right where you stand, leaving you ankle deep in tears of joy. Engulfed by the warmth of bitter love and protruding harmonies as to wring the very nature from your bodily vessel. The evaporation of the last drop of effervescence in your words, since words are useless there, and the decimation of the myriad wonders of the arousing commotion in your dances, for pose is made absolutely redundant by that new ruling environment.
We are not hollow to begin with but filled with exploding aspirations of splendid moments. There are stretch marks all over our minds, infinite assemblies of fears and crusts of talented adaptation, caked on top of each other. A tarnished coat for each pitfall we leaped and barely evaded. And hence we find ourselves on the brink of crossing over, covered in horrendous, wormy and uneven scars. Monstrous in our every way. Sobbing, heaving and oozing, while we so desperately want to consider ourselves refined, elusive and delicate. The acted-out fragility of genuine artists with none of the actual shards. There is just no trace of a shadow of wreckage to support the evidence of those anxious feelings. You’re a fraudulent interpretation of yourself. And that mirror is growing thicker and more impenetrable with every true feeling you deny yourself. With every lost day you spend in your office cubicle. Totally disconnected from the scratching, confined creature that you hold captive by your own willingness.
Arise for the last time and overstretch those matured scars to meekly look yourself in the eyes, as the reaper reaps.