Mental 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 for real. It’s an extraordinary outward appearance that most people are experts at establishing, whereas I’m best at genuinely smiling through my guts with the most confusing tunnel vision.

I don’t see the corners, except for the ugly shapes of my own writing: uncertain curves, thick lines – all aiming towards directions I can’t see, hoping to find some solid ground to rest on. And the abusive liar’s job will be to discharge them into the white sea, which is right behind these words that you are analysing.

Comatose phrases that no longer ignite but nullify your concepts. Has there ever been a concept? An attempt not to stagnate in your crowded 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 do you do if you don’t bite into the fishhook and let reason fish you out?

It feels like death to fiction. I don’t know where it is easier to breathe. Behind the wall is still a massive dump of mental waste, waiting to be 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’m not through yet.

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