Orchestral breakdowns
look pitifully insignificant
to the oblivious;
the naked eye couldn't
pick up microscopic
idiosyncrasies.
I go back and forth
tirelessly, debating if the
world around me is real.
(What is real, anyways?)
Is reality the evacuation
of emotion, the exile of
obedience in our cortex?
Or is reality the facts we
hide from ourselves and others?
Our inability to ever certify
our purpose, to gain control
and ascend the throne of free will?
I analyze the nuances and
shades of society, wondering
if I even have the authority
to make my own choice.
If it's all an illusion,
why continue forward?
Why fight, why lead,
why not fall back and follow?
It's asinine to believe that
you are here, in another form,
but how do I explain the
faint glimpses I catch of you -
a glitch in my reality,
a rabbit's snowy tail among a
city of ruin, of gravestones,
gray matter decomposing our
salvation, our sense of self.
The pendulum swings,
tides rising, paradigms
and paradoxes never
failing.
What do I do if this
reality fails?
If my system of
trust corrodes into itself,
a nebulous nonexistence,
memories on a mirror's edge.
If we are ever reunited,
will time flicker?
Will our brains diminish
our meaning, sending us
into an avalanche of
endless hallucinations.
If there is an escape,
does that mean there's a
semblance of a savior?
Or is it another delusion?
How can we save what
we are not even sure of?
You lead me to an infinite
number of dead ends,
until I force my way through
the rubble - synapses of a
scientifically sound structure.
You expect me to jump,
a free fall, but what will wait
for me below?
_________________________
Found this poem in my notebook, written 7/22/2022.
