I still….I just don’t think I’m….
It’s always been absurd to me, a cliche. Uttered by so many in meaningless attempts to be genuine that I’ve never given it an ounce of serious consideration. Until now.
Face-to-face in a moment that could be nothing less than the ultimate reality. Staring down the possibility that I’m reading the line and thinking it’s the only thing to say, re-reading it, bouncing it off of others for their approval. It sounds true… perhaps right, even. And that can’t be a good thing.
Signs follow me in my sleep, there’s no rest for the w(e)ary. The efforts to suspend the sub-conscious and mornings full of guilt and (hopeful) disbelief are fading into the night. The dreams are the last indicators before perception becomes reality.
I can’t help wondering what brought me here. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s impossible that it will take me away. Trapped deep inside this misrepresentation, trying to claw my way out seems futile.
Fuck it.
I still… but I just don’t think I’m…
