Industrial waste

The result is fake, illusory smiles; second hand smiles with unknown origins. Except, one thing’s for sure – they aren’t mine, despite acting them for real. It’s an extraordinary outward appearance which most people are expert at establishing, whereas I’m best at genuinely smiling through my guts with the most daunting tunnel vision ever experienced. Basically no surroundings visible, except for the ugliest shapes of my own writing: uncertain curves, stiff lines – all aiming towards undiscovered directions, hoping to find some solid ground to rest on. And the abusive liar’s job will then be to discharge them into the white sea which is right behind these words that you are overanalysing. Comatose phrases that no longer ignite, but nullify your very own concept. Has there ever been a concept? An attempt not to stagnate in your overcrowded mind? This page, for all I know, is as meaningless as your leftover food. Never has this been any clearer. I no longer wish to be a charlatan. This so-called ‘dogmatic sleep’ is a hoax or merely absurd. What to do if not bite into the fishhook and let reason fish you out? It feels like death to fiction anyhow. I don’t know where it is easier to breathe. Whatever really. Behind the wall is still a massive dump of mental waste waiting to get recycled, reinvented and reintroduced. And I can’t do it anymore.
Some words taste like chemicals on my tongue. Even the most fundamental terms no longer reflect this upside down crusade. Like what crusade? An act of bravado I no longer wish to pursue. Absurdity too inexorable to circumvent.
I no longer want this, but it’s too early for the halt; I am not through, yet.

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