We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works

Is how the world really works

I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is ******
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:


"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between

And the really ****** up part
Is that we already know this

But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
Everything
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles

But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Pain
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror

The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God

And we'll never know if blue was the correct choice.
We'll never know if pink were a suit better.
I'd never known there was a choice of color had I not caught your grey eyes marked in purples and blacks.
There is much red now.
In the toilet bowl.
On the tiled floor.
Finding its way into my veins and sight.
So tell me, with all these unkowns where lays truth and love?
In his bed or mine?
Do you dream of gold teeth?
Do you dream of replacing your own?
Someday this day will pass.
Someday this anniversary will pass.
And a moment waiting will emerge, staying your wrists from some razor's call.
I pray the dates melt and fade.
I pray the memory of you twirls away, spilling over the claw foot's edge, into oblivion.