I watch you gleam and glide over the likeness of this. Overshadow what is the truth with something a little less reality, a little softer to your innards. You try to compare and you try to match but there exists no dynamic that can culminate and climax quite like that. And the sun bounces off the lake into rays of beams and energy as though nothing for all the world is wrong. Because ‘wrong’ is a definition and exists merely as such.
But then you see yourself in the mirror, feeling desperate and unsure how to take on the hardest thing you have ever had to take on. One pill, one drink, one drag, one high, one new toy, one person, is all you need you think, just to make it a little easier. You can’t do it alone. You never have been able to. Besides, what is the point of self flagellation? You may as well find pleasure while commencing with the toughest quest yet. Or so you think, as you stare numbly into the dead heart of a young child. There is no adult in this room.
And the moon roams the sky as you wonder the places indifferently in search of your next attraction. Nothing burns long enough; the dull boredom of unsettled calm eats at you. You rehearse the lines you know so well, that take you as far as the horizon. You have never encountered what is beyond it. When others have sailed over and above the horizon you have discovered yourself at a parting with those individuals, being left behind while you leave them. You cannot go where they go, because you only have the script, the idea, the ‘right’ way to be. There is no sail of your own. There is not even yet a full boat.
Gripping at the limited pleasure you encounter, you succumb to what might be happiness. And you do all the big things that grown-ups do, and you brush your teeth and open each day with sun salutations. But in you there is emptiness. Your waters are shallow and within your complexity lays simplicity and laziness. What you lead to believe exists, exists only in the fragments of words. And before you know it, you realise, you are nothing but the Construct. You have lost touch- if indeed you ever even had any touch.
And as you stare at the aging lines around the eyes, you begin to wonder where did all the rainbows go? You hear yourself echo back in a multi-mirrored room. And terror grips your insides. You are failing yourself. Or are you? Perhaps this is what you are; is all that your purpose is to the universe and the Divine. Perhaps you balance the scales as this person, of your own misery. And in that, you are successful and complete. Perhaps it is what you are drawn to and hence, why you cannot budge beyond the horizon. Perhaps you are the shadowing teacher for those who are primarily optimistic and free. The lover. The charmer. The bee collector. And candlestick maker. No more complex.
And the lake fades in the sunset. And the clouds break in splendour. And you remember that it doesn’t matter what is said. Everything is produced by the action. In action you destroy- yourself, others around you and that which you think you create. Because in action you reveal the lack of doing and the existence of nothing- which is ultimately something. Though these too are all definition locked words, forming part of the Construct. You realise in horror- you are merely a Constructed force.
