In the end, I walked away. Even though it was a different direction from where I’d started,  I felt relatively unchanged.  No matter what I accomplished I remained, in the minds of my contemporaries, set in my old, cold ways. I couldn’t write the past away.

I stared at the ceiling wondering if anything mattered,  anything at all. And if it did, what did that mean for me? And who was I anyway? My bed wasn’t very comfortable,  but I had little motivation to do anything about that. Besides,  the suffering probably helped me build character. 

Sometimes when I write I get to the end and I wonder if it’s even over. Of course it’s not. Of course I could go on forever.  But when it starts feeling like a lie, that’s when I stop. And I sit around waiting for a new truth to emerge in my mind, so I can put passion on paper and hope someone else will find some meaning in whatever combination of letters I decide reveal. Perhaps they’ll make more sense out of it than I ever could.  Than I ever will.

But most of the time my bed digs into my back, and instead of changing my position I hold my breath and wait for everything to fade away. So I can keep walking down whatever path I’m walking down.

No one will no it’s nonsense if it looks pretty or rolls smoothly off the tongue. Is there more wrong with committing deception,  or with being deceived? With regard to myself, I walk the line between.

That’s the path.

But no one can see me. When they do they mistake me for someone else. Sometimes I mistake someone else for myself.


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