It's only rising. I search for answers, but find only more questions.
What are these faces around me? Why are these eyes empty? Blank. They startle my senses. Who is this stranger in the glass? This reflection of a half-self.
Void. Uncertain. Unknowing. Or knowing, rather, of all they don't know.
A battle of wanting. A slaughter. A desperate clutching of things once certain. Or maybe not. Maybe never. or maybe always. Then again... always until now.
Laughter reaches me, it is faded, dark. Far away. Is it me? I cannot feel my words.
I ache for combustion. Deliver unto me the wrath of exposure.
1 comment:
I recall a Calvin and Hobbes in which Calvin ponders his reflection in a puddle and Hobbes points out that maybe Calvin is the reflection of the puddle person.
Night falls, and Calvin is still staring unhappily into the puddle.
Perhaps wholeness will not come until the reflection accepts you as a part of its reality.
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