I feel all at once affronted by the peculiarity of the state of being,
existing both in the planes of the body and the heart.
Where does the spirit return to?
Which is the true homeland,
that birthed the fastidiousness of action,
and steadfast resolve?
And what's more, does it matter?
Whether it came from out the window or through the page,
both a screen behind the world you are not in.
The state of? What state? Am I even evident unto myself?
I am more in the state of myself through the lens.
I am more seen by those coded in stroke marks.
We are obscured in the same way,
similarly reaching in ways that feel prescribed.
And whether I have any audience but myself,
like them, how would I ever know?
Even the futile is futile;
Caught and heavy,
like a tamed beast whose instincts still pulse between its bones.
There is no conclusion I come to,
as that is the way of narrative dissonance;
Fine entropy re-releasing the atoms of thought in new scattered conundrums.
Awareness is a curse and I crave its blessing.
With others I bluff,
but here in my self-made land,
I cultivate stories into my being,
and land for a brief while,
in what is possibly the only truth I am to be afforded.