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How Twisted We Are How twisted we are in our hidden inner labyrinths, how simple we seem or at least pretend to be in front of others, with perfect smiles and proper words and studied gestures, while inside we are knots of tangled and strangled serpents. How twisted we are deep in the bottom of our convoluted souls, where no one sees the monstrous contortions and convulsions, where we twist like deformed acrobats in an invisible circus, our secret spectacle of grotesque and dirty beauty. How simple we seem when we talk about weather and trivial matters, when we laugh at jokes that aren't funny and applaud stupidity, when we pretend that life is easy and everything's under control, that we're not twisted beings woven from fears and lies. But deep within us is a labyrinth of twisted and crooked corridors, where we contort spectacularly like deformed dancers, where we twist ourselves into impossible knots trying to fit, into the shapes that society demands and forcefully imposes on us. How insignificant we are in the vast and indifferent universe, just microscopic dots on a microscopic planet, and yet we contort spectacularly before our own mirrors, and before others' eyes seeking to seem important and special. We twist and break and bend into strange and artificial forms, to be seen to be liked to be accepted and loved, forgetting that beneath all the contortions we're just flesh and bones, fragile and temporary beings who will fade one day without a sound. How twisted we are when we look into others' eyes with lies, when we build our characters from scraps and threads of cheap theater, when we hide our inner twists beneath shining costumes, pretending that we're simple and direct and sincere and transparent. But if anyone could see inside they would flee terrified, from the monstrosity of our knots of thoughts and desires, from the grotesque spectacle of contortions we perform daily, trying to fit ourselves into boxes too small for our being. We twist like serpents around our own tails, like acrobats in a circus without audience but with mirrors everywhere, spectacular and pathetic at the same time ridiculous and tragic, insignificant and yet so obsessed with our own importance. How simple we pretend to be in our banal conversations, talking about things that don't matter with people who don't know us, while inside there's a chaos of tangled threads and tight knots, a labyrinth of contradictions in which we lose ourselves constantly. We contort before our own eyes to see ourselves beautiful, we twist the truth until it becomes a shape we can bear, we bend and break to fit into the stories we tell, about who we are and what we've achieved and where we're going in life. And before others' eyes the dance becomes even more spectacular and false, the contortions become more extreme like psychotic gymnasts, we twist into impossible shapes to impress and to seduce, forgetting that everyone around us does the exact same grotesque and sad dance. How insignificant we are in the grand scheme of cosmic existence, just ephemeral insects who live for a moment and vanish into nothingness, and yet we contort as if we were the center of the universe, as if each of our twists had eternal importance. But the truth is we're twisted beings pretending simplicity, walking labyrinths masked in costumes of normality, spectacularly contorted inside and perfectly simple outside, a living paradox that walks and breathes and lies until death. How twisted we are and how well we pretend that we're not, how complexly convoluted and how simply apparent we want to be, how spectacularly we contort for nothing and for no one, in this absurd circus where we're all twisted and lonely clowns.

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