is it not my face? i see what i expect what i feel
that the oppression of silence. the silence in oppression.
a vacuum hums, seemingly far off. but, when i raise my eyes
to look, it is but feet from me. hmmmmmmmmmmm vmmmmmmmm.
click-click-click-click. the endless 'word process.'
people asleep, walking around trying to fool themselves: as
if i dont know, as if we all dont know. but, we're all
willing to keep our mouths shut. after all, we're playing
the same game ourselves. i'm playing the same game myself.
disheveled, her hair does not even hang. as her, it is in
its moment of attention, seeking engagement. but, this
moment has yet to end since i saw it begin.
action plan: fuck myself over one million times.
how to describe that face?
perplexed as if by a life-long Question which could be
answered in a moment of thought:
am i asking myself one of those questions? my perpetual
question. fear of that moment of thought prolongs the
torture of guessing. guessing for a life-time. or know in
that hum brings me back. back to the outside. my
cigarette. the snap-crackle-pop of the cloves whose ashes
blow in the wind. blow away with the soft chime of the
wind, reminding me that my paper is only part of the story.
the soft chime that can only be seen in the eyes of beauty.
i've never seen it. it probably only exists in the eyes of
an indigenous girl, innocent as the wind and deep as the
foundations of everything we believe in. or have we sucked
the vital fluid of humanity, even from the farthest reaches
of our society?
how can anyone judge another by the notions of their own
existence or through the eyes of the only person they have
how do i justify it?
truth: none here. truth exists only in questions and in
answers. i question not for answers, only questions.
seeking truth and hoping to God to never find it.
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