Sentence
March.27.08

I set out to write a sentence but it came to be a paragraph.
So it goes, it’s life. I don’t mind. Anymore.
I wonder if I’m only real because others believe it,
or if they’re only real because I believe it.
If you exist only to do these deeds around me,
if when hidden behind walls your sounds are only echoes but
either way it’s a form of vanity of mine. Ego often
shines and blinds my better senses after all and every time.
That’s nothing new. So human. No one escapes this mind.
You are no alien after all, despite all fixated attempts.
Twisting knotted fingers around the wheel and hums burn from your chest,
a warped story you speak to yourself and of which I do not understand.
I don’t know you whoever you are and at my door coughing.
You make no sense and command all worries towards mine, trapping
me within ugly innumerous creatures. You cackle away at them but
they are not funny. They will never be. I wish to leave.
Let it be for things are how they should and not how they are.
Music cradles me until I am drained and half-asleep, and
still writing a paragraph of a sentence. This music
is mine and not yours and
I’m glad.