Ataraxia

Writing this I must be doing This I love I must I love it must Why? Heh, the words melt into nothing as they say Can’t understand it anyways The papers scramble and run and wait that’s not supposed to— Ah yes the letter? Yes, the letter Pretending it is all fine when it isn’t Ha Still, I don’t understand what they say Pretending fine care understand melt love writing If the party is to be crashed why’d I care? Dancing won’t help would it no it wouldn’t Pretend care I must love care pretend? Singing pretense care I must love must I care pretense singing Sing? You sing yet not are singing Bye. Second living day I rise Peace? Love it must I Pretentious it must be Bullet points on my head Singing not caring that I must love Paint the world red this day Pretending to care, love, sing Canister of lies Medical probably, or pretending to be Singing probably helps: Singularity of the mind escapes to another plane Desire quench desire yet birth more desire Still, I can’t hear the meaning in their words The sun flash by like disco lights. And moon Never mind, this ends now, A trigger word you say and I do it now Matter it will not love pretend nothing— There it is Let the world be clear. The third day I rise alive Bed not mine Sheets clean white Singing, Under which sky did you love once? Loving pretending and pretending loving? Clock is ticking bounding sinking drowning. A shell of its former self sits on the table. Stained with the truest love. Comprehension indeed must birth curiosity. Format fades and incoherency invades. Never made sense anyways. Yet to love it is not lovingly giving. To love is not lovingly taking. To knows someone else may have an answer— Singing never was for me. Pretending to care pretending to be cared. They love singing and dancing about loving and pretending. I despise the third day. Cut. Last day I rise, unfulfilled Desire unaccomplished, request unmet Like a joke destiny has played To leave is to stop pretending, stop loving Yet what thing else could I? Cower in this unfamiliar place Like a fragile infant In disgrace? Or simply speak to the carer of this place That one ought not to live who desiren't life I cower in what may be At last Neither path forward nor backward, stuck in time In the dream we call living Bound to endless identical halls Sealed to an eternity of loss Now, upon this place of reflection and peace Naught remains but a stained past The blinding color of red