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An arbitrary monologue for something vague I may write sometime.

Because I'm used to my mind.

This isn't a walk to the park.

It's just a walk to school.

If only people could know what it's like

to maintain the delicacy of a romantic

fantasy while obliging objective repetitive

things that most people do so that they

can claim they had a life once, before

their consciousness decide whether

or not they've done a good job

I have to know what it's like

for you all too. To find out what it's like for me

In a way. If I have different hues of the same

character as well as a dazzling arrangement

of personalities to choose from,

I can specify my own variation and combination,

like a peacock with a sugar daddy,

and arrange myself as a dazzling pattern in

the sheer gauze of social reality.

Because I've looked underneath.

And I don't want you to see what

skims the edge of optimism

Not because you shouldn't know, no.

It's because I don't want you to experience

what that know. I'd rather have

you laugh and delight in wit so that

the paper cut at work doesn't

gnaw away at you, citing all sorts of

ridiculous and atrocious possibilities

to justify itself as a beautiful metaphor

I guess people matter to me because I can't define myself without them. And if I don't define myself, why do I even bother existing?


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