I have trouble believing what I’m told.
The breaking of illusions, the absence of pretense sucks me in like a black hole.
A conscious trail of inner dialogue.
It’s not that there are lies, there just isn’t any truth. Those truths happy in the safety of self made delusional society, repetitively beaten into them.
I am a wounded interstellar space traveler. Looking in from the outside. If your place is everywhere you don’t dance to the same beat. A thousand cultures built into one. A spectrum of swirling mass. A cosmic storm. An awkwardly chaotic and confusing place to be.
If I told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? You probably wouldn’t, unless you had cultivated some belief in your grey matter that convinced you that there would be a soft landing in pink candyfloss. Even then, you’d need proof, right?
I wholeheartedly wish I could believe what I was told. Life would be simpler. One plus one equals two. “Drink the potion” he said. “It’ll make you taller” he said.
“Only in the perception of my mind” I said.
Only a drug addled lynch mob could take you to the deep chasm of this sort of design.
Have I reached my own event horizon? A boundary in spacetime beyond which events cannot affect me as an outside observer. An alchemy of dissolution.
In the end, does any of it matter? I am not the archetype of distilled definitions of truth and reality. I am another Alice in a condensed parallel version of wonderland.