The least they ever gave you…

…was the most you ever knew.

So you take your empty soul, your little dreams and put them on scraps of paper. Collect, add, scratch out and replace. You walk about in a dream, hoping to convince someone to take one of those notes, to read it and see that part you didn’t want to show them yet died for them to see. And then you move away, that bit of your soul already withering because someone else saw it, turning into dust in their hands.

Meanings, symbols, language – all of them fade away till you’re left with a hollow shell and you forgot how you got there. Are you really selling yourself for a kiss, a touch? Alone, you sit above your existence, watching the river rush by. You move along the charted out track, make all the right moves and provide no obstacle to that endless cycle of love and loneliness. Your little heart breaking at every turn.

This level of disconnection is unacceptable. Immerse yourself in reality. All this positive reinforcement, makes me wonder why they even bother. It’s probably more empty words anyway. Such a sense of cynicism. Living every life before and after – a string of souls stretching forward and backward till the ends of time. Take a little of their hopes, a couple of his desires and her thoughts. Originality is an illusion, you are a reflection of your life. And death is that amused spectre, laughing at you from every drag of nicotine, from every taste of pleasure. Trace the outlines of your life on your palm. Someone once told me I’d die young and in pain. I wonder why?

Moments of clarity, of realizing the enormity and the insignificance. Quickly grab a sensible thought before your head is forced back into that shallow pool that you drown in.

This is your life, am I who you want to be?

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