Every aspect of your unforgiving world is a tool for distraction. Perfectly organised attire, the art of your food and the food of your art, drinking to saturation, music to deafen. An appetite to cram, to partition, to engross. Distraction from an image, the representation of your failures, neatly boxed into a grain-less reflection. Everything cornered to a moment, captured in a mirror…..
The first glimpse, created to remove you from the delusion of your fabricated world. Used to engulf willpower and draw you in further until every freckle and curve are examined in a way that furthermore triggers the mirage in your mind that swindles a picture of normality in carving your life story into the pool of tears on the floor. The reflected manifestation is your only true oracle. Every reason it failed, it ended, it died, you fell, he left, you couldn’t love, you scream, you panic, you’re alone, you hate, you’re in need, you ache, you breathe.
Somehow, at every beginning of each fabricated age you’ve merely created to ground one’s self from your own heightened aspirations, you manage to convince your head’s audience of how mystifyingly beautiful you are from core to core, strength to strength. How no seemingly priceless gem, rarer than rare could ever equate to the astounding and pure exquisiteness found in the deepest reaches of your soul no matter its dim potency or colourless appearance. It’s there in wait, for that connection fashioned to shed and drag from its sinking existence. You succeed however, to betray your own vision, painting your deceitful world in red fire to mask the lies you stack till the weight is subsequently dense enough to keep on keeping on. This bandaid, strong, heavy, reliant, cracks at the sheer presence of a reflective surface. Echoing the truth, pound by scar by abrasion by crooked and faulty but hidden replica until the blood runs freer than ever before. Till found speaking aloud to imagined deity, begging for definite resolution in eradicating the last few splinters of your allotted sanity. To end it all.
No amount of contortion, moulding or manoeuvring of molecules and skin cells changes the certainty in an image. No work, no starvation of mind or stomach amends the ever pressing reality beating against your reddened cheek. The truth that scratches at your temples, hoping for change beneath the soft exterior.
Seize anyone, anything, any offer of warmth and unity. Any source of fallacy that resembles a bond you may acquire for the end result is far more than you beyond doubt, really deserve. The one dreamt in years prior is so unthinkably distant that for them to distinguish any glow beneath your murky and deteriorating remains is a task not any could bare. They would see what everyone else does, deformity.
Reaching, forever reaching. All because the pieces don’t match between this jagged cage and once smooth complexion aching for the caress of a surgical knife. The top half, the bottom half. Two forms moulded into one, stuck with a glue that is evident from tip to toe. Smashing through the broken perception of one’s own self-evaluation isn’t just a task designed for thousands, but is crammed into the 4×4 space of your own tiny mind.
To be whole… is a search in vain and no amount of tears you shed would ever be enough to reward your penance.