When did I detach myself from the current of reality,
eternally fused to the nothingness that awaits us?
To become a slave of dreams and machinations.
When did I become another heartbeat,
longing for fantasies of love,
only to find the anguish that comes from human desire.
Knowing that we are powerless to our fascinations.
How many days go by, as we long to be remembered?
For art, for name, for doing, for living
only to reach the same end of obscurity.
They call me a deconstructionist, a detester of life.
But are we not worthlessly tied to this current of life?
We are born with no concepts, no meaning, an echo of what is to come.
& that same echo escapes us in the end.
