“In no fashion have I lost my passion for the pen - it’s just lately life has been a lot less inspiring…”

And it’s not that I require inspiration to speak with you, I require aspiration.  In this genetic mix of depravity, degradation, and destitution, I find release.  I am only a fighter in the guise of a writer and I remain focused, slightly passed gifted, ranging along the extraordinarily ordinary.  I granted you the words, and you still fail to define my existence.

Like Neo in the Matrix, I swallowed the blue pill, and instead of waking up, I fell asleep and created a world in which I created you.  If Unicorns did not exist, why is it that we all know what a Unicorn looks like?  I know you do not exist; you are not real.  I clearly picture your form, the sheen of your wings, and the symmetry of your lithe body.  The whisper of breeze that follows each flutter of your wings – I remain the one, like five divided by four…

I was naïve, then the pill wore off, and I awake refreshed, resplendent; graced in blessings not of my making.  How is it that the visage of you upon the periphery of my mind generates a nervous tick of the brow, and dampening of the palms?  What did I do to deserve the pain of this return?  I return full circle to the end – a sad beginning.  I fight this current, gasping for air…forever dying, disallowed to awaken from this nightmare.

I did not create you, of that I am sure – though you owe your existence to me; to my efforts.  I can’t stop my suffering, my loss of control.  I’ve found in me, you…we, and us.  Together, forever shall we remain apart.  As I said, only in the paradox do we solidify true existence. 

I often wonder how you deal with my insanities.

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