Prologue to the book I’ll write one day
Once I believed myself to be quite intelligent.
I wonder now how I ever assumed to know anything more
than what goes on behind
my eyelids, my own little spheres of
What I presume to know may very well just be vapor.
This upsets my entire perception of the world
and at times I have to question whether my eyes are open at all.
I hear it all, and in my core
I realized long ago that I hear things
not really there. Not in the insane sense of the statement, I’m not to that point yet…
I mean I hear words in mute occurrences –
At times I’ve almost decided that the most obnoxiously overt statements I’ve encountered
are those carefully enclosed in tight cubes of
absolute calculated silence.
How horribly we,
as people in the same situation,
can conspire to injure one another!
Life, as a whole, could attain a new facet of joy did we not regard one another so
I only know that I, man alive that I am,
(and only that)
possess the gruesome ability to dismantle another person totally in my mind,
and I injure them so entirely that at times it seems
their blood is in danger of seeping from under my own skin.
Revolting as this may seem –
as my pen marks on the page, even –
your own mind could certainly just now be occupied in ripping your neighbor into four seperate pieces, to be left dripping on whatever ground
you currently occupy.
And us, with our pious eyes!
Looking over the slope of my being, I am enclosed
to my present capability,
and the terror I periodically face
makes me glad that my eyes, from time to time, decide not to see.