Thickness is not part of the disguise. The joke is not carefully hidden. A pink veil, hardly larger that a handkerchief, attempts to cover it all. I can see parts of its broken frame from every corner of the room, from every angle I try to capture with my hand. Little pieces of metal fall continuously onto the tiled floor, and as the structure breaks, I can hear muted screams and terrible laughing. I am in a yellow room, completely alone, and the structure sits in the center, on a high backed wooden chair. An airborne metallic spear nearly stabs me, disintegrating as it hits the plaster wall to my rear. And continuous, within the mayhem, a continuous stream of foul smelling smoke rises from the center.
I knew it to be an illusion.
The complete package, containing all my perceptions. My inheritance disguised as love, and passed to me with unconscious care.
I felt cold…alien.
I watched everything I ever knew, all that I thought I needed…I watched it crumble, nearly impaling me with each moment of decomposition.
I cried and remembered.
The moments of bliss, so far and few between. My moments of wakefulness, opening to the Real.
For a second, the illusion had vanished. I was awake.
And then, the desires began. The attempts at recreation. All of them, false roads and no teacher.
Only failed attempts at waking.
Where had it gone?
I spent my years unhappy. Aware of the veil, aware of my human trappings, but unable to stop the desires.
When would my peace come?
When could I rest?
Would it be the artistic job? The wonderful lover? The trip to Africa?
What would it take to feel alive? As I had once felt on a train in Italy.
And so I spent my time in continuous struggle, believing, on the worst days, that everyone else- every person on the planet- understood something I didn’t.
And now, I struggle still.
With a new set of tools, yet unable to control my desires.
I know they are not happy, and there is no peace that can be found within the world of possessions.
And yet, peace is not what we seek, although my body craves its illusion like a drug.
I feel pain
Knowing that a normal life provides no happiness.
Knowing that a life of Work promises no rewards either.
And there is no other choice.
Delusion or struggle
Illusion or Work
But I see mirages on all sides.
Above and below, and I am bound tight.
They beckon me to rest, to lay upon their soft breasts and hide.
The Real darkness cannot be seen pressed between two nipples.
Their naked bodies call to me.
Their promises roll over me like waves of pink sleepiness.
They beg to throw the veil upon my eyes.
But never again could I lay naked on a beach, the hours passing like slow moving clouds.
I exist, in neither world.
I do not exist at all.
Yet I claim to.
I see my attached hands grab at my breasts.
I feel tears gather at the corners of my eyes each dawn
I look to the others, with their shopping bags and lovers.
I too, have tried to escape by these means.
It does not work
Not for me.
Disguised in cleaver, colorful clothes, my smile danced upon the lips of crystal goblets. Extending my tongue, licking the purple wine like a cat lapping milk.
Each droplet forever infecting me with the need of contact.
It is the blood for which I craved.
To dig, deep.
Into the veins with my long, pointed teeth,
My lips, parted and red from another encounter
The goblet has been offered, and I accepted with tongue outstretched. Lips opened by hands of long fingers.
A piano plays, pinkied notes of high esteem dab at drops of blood escaping. As I am only a novice, I let them dribble down my chin.