I.
The articulation of words poses no real challenge;
meaning, on the other hand, is a mystery I am yet to unravel.
Sometimes I wish it came easy to me;
if only I had a god to believe,
or a vision on which to supervene…
Oh, what great comfort it would be!
And instead here I am,
neck-deep in my thoughts,
seeking help from a screen
that spits my words right back at me.
Seems to me that ignorance really is bliss.
And yet it can only afford you peace
so long as you have no choice;
no conflict, or voice.
For those who suffer from my affliction,
there is no creed or conviction
that can save you from this condition.
It is chronic in nature,
savage are its symptoms,
and doomed are its victims.
The world as we know it
has rendered no cure,
no sempiternal relief,
or universal elixir.
And so with no other option we capitulate
and implore sustenance from forces
with ephemeral authority.
Divinities, martyrs, leaders.
Sex, drugs, love.
Denial, positivism.
Oh how they tame the demons within,
and calm our inhibitions,
and numb the pain of every contradiction.
Yet saddest of all, is that I believe there is none.
Meaning is constructed,
not inherited or commanded.
And so it is nothing and all,
synchronously true and false.
The key is hardly better than the query,
for now it becomes clear
that it is to be sculpted
with your own bare hands.
And herein lies the problem
because how the fuck should I know
who I am.
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