It’s easy to believe that I will never write again, never do anything again, in truth, for I never have done anything; other than vacillate like a lung, that is. I’ve blown, overblown and deflated again so many times, that the muscle memory is imprinted upon my sleep. This is no way to be, this inward vision of isolation and disdain. I know nothing about myself, despite the off-the-chart emotional intelligence the mirror lies about. I am so bereft, so devoid of circumference and lacking in humanity that I am growing increasingly convinced that I have been deluded, along with all my poor, hapless companions by my own apparition; once, perhaps, some kind of meaningful facsimile – a projection of outer volition and meaning – but so abused, venal, exaggerated, satirical now as to be like a ghost in the garden at midnight – fleeting, pointless, dusty, ridiculous. I am that ghost in the garden of my own mind, an aberration beyond redemption, for that which may be redeemed must be more than handfuls of dust, scattering to the corners of pointless existence.
(c) Kosmogonic 2016