I am writing not out of depression, but with faith. I am not who I thought I would be. This is not me, the past has sought. There is a nagging feeling that gnaws deep inside. I am not the one I see in the mirror. The weak hearted fool. An Illusion of grandeur. A spitting image of foolish betrayal of validity. I am the parallel of the one I see in the eye’s perspective. Uncertainty has dulled me. Confusion delves deep. But I know now.
This is not the real life of what is. A dismembered painting of a whole piece. Only seeing the crack of light. A light that does not give justice to the whole body of origin. A reflection, distorted to hue of truth.
I want to roam around the real plane. To see its greatness. For every piece of satisfaction I feel I dream will be just a fraction to what has to come there. In the never ending grace or tempest. I do not know. I just hope. Would you say a foolish thought is foolish because of majority ruled it as such. Would evidence be enough to shake the foundation of a lie to prove something is also a lie?
Give me a piece of the truth to dissect and you’ll gain the gibberish that has penetrated deep inside. It does not come off easily as one would have thought. The senses have something reality do not have. A subjective voice. The emotion of experience, the story of the friction and reaction. The alleviation of hurt that the truth has brought. But since when does the truth inflict pain? It does not have claws to latch onto the feeble flesh, nor teeth to chew the mind.
It does not free, for ignorance does not bind. Ignorance is an unattached state. More synonymous to apathy, much closer to freedom in a brutal analogy. What does truth free if there is no ignorance? Does truth lose it bearing if all is given light to? Lies have no worth either way. But truth has it’s decadence at the mercy of a deception. What does weigh more?
The remedy or the disease?
Does the victim has any say to that cliché?
Freedom is an overrated idea. More like an exploding battle cry for discomfort.
It does not give comfort to a drowning man handed a piece of paper with the words “air” on it nor does it give meaning to the unconscious processes of life we are just having a glimpse of.
For how many billions of years does the world has keep existing not knowing the kingdoms of living things dwells on its face. Does it give a deeper sense to the world knowing that an arthropod has jointed legs? The mound of dirt revolving around a massive amount of gas has survived long before the first human has said the very first intelligent word. And it will continue to be, even the last unintelligible moan has escaped the last person.