Imaginations

You asked why? Why did she need to know

I think. I think of me as her. I think of me as you.

I think of the weight of a million tons of steel pressing against my whole existence and the hole in my chest resisting the weight like an unbreakable chest of hearts.

Am I proud.

So me as her. Me as me. Which one kills me the most. When will that part constantly dying
die out completely.

Then maybe communicating will become that simple exchange of words that is for the happy people.

As the hole is resisting your eyes look down and out and then me with an expression that as far as my dictionary is concerned stands confused. A man that is guilty yet innocent by conviction.

How do I explain this to you. How do I say I could be her without admitting my leaving.

I can't admit what admitting would be the breaking of me and the man of conviction.

Then the hands. The lesser hands. The more important. I am not her. But my mind wont stop.

I have too much imagination for an alive being. 

"My suffering comes from my sole ability to suffer."

My dear sir, you are one of the many and I am the only one of my species. It would take a lot of fascination for my species for you to be there. But you are a man of the men. My lack of trust in your species comes from the unfascinated existences you carry inside you, what I call the anti-life of happiness, a summer cabin to rest forever.  I stay for

there is left no home for the solitary but that of confusion. Be it in you. Be it in me. Be it in her. The realisation of this entrapment makes me freer. That is what a free man seeks to relieve him from the pain of his vainness, some undeniable dissociation from the illusion of choice. Choice carries us like a wave on the palette of the sea, a freedom soothing for the soulful man until the wave crushes inevitably on the shore. And then comes the wish of having been a fish thoughtless and unhuman. In that thought so natural I find that

There is no happiness but that of moderation. Moderate thoughts, moderate lives, moderate emotions blackberries, porridge, cheap beer, chives, early nights. I leave you to contemplate the leaving or the staying. And by that I mean the numbness.

It's the numbness I need to contemplate. That lesser required. Then I cry.

I suddenly want to leave the examined life to those men without homes in the wasteland of anti-thoughts and immigrate to the nothingness of a life unexamined.