I tried to act confidently, but it came up like a faux bouquet, presented steadily with bowtie fixed, yet shoving, “here!” “take them- what are you waiting for?” And no reply. (And no reply). And- Why is it so difficult to be myself? Do I not love myself? Is this some sort of congenital disease- some inertly cyclopean phenomenon- where I am victim to my own constant surveillance? Hyper vigilance- or vanity? Which is worse? Would that I could break all of the mirrors hanging on all of the walls- all of the windows with all of their reflecting- Would that I could kiss myself, feel myself, touch myself, know myself, then maybe I could know you how to love me. How to love me? With that inquiry left unsatisfied, am I left flitting from void to void? Though in some spaces I stare into the Quantum Sea and say, It is but the stuff of me! And, I shall never die! But that is not the same- it is not the same to know thyself in a flower as to know thy hand- one is weightless, the other is responsible.
I fear the mirrors. I want to fluctuate invisible.