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Tragic Space

Something, or someone, inexplicable whispers vague and ambiguous words and exclamations inside me, unabridged and longing, enigmatic and supercilious in nature. There is something needed to be done, and is to be done by me alone. These whispers, somewhat incoherent, resonate a resounding translation that even though and despite the confusion, it remains adamant, optimistic, confident, as if I were involved in some sort of serendipitous conspiracy that is bound to deliver, bound to occur. Then I took a step forward in order to test this imposing force, and sighed, at the very relief of having still that freedom to think that I am able to think if indeed there was that possibility to step forward. My mind, as proof of this experiment, is still mine and mine alone. But this thing desires one thing, and only one thing, and it wants me to discover this, to find out for myself what it most likely means to be completely free. Very free. Maybe a million miles away but still free. I say my name to the wind. Zen. And it floats like a leaf fighting against the laws of gravity, as have I since the day of my birth. And how it has been decided long before that, and how others before me came to question its being, as nothing but something, a motion in emotion, like a locomotion of thoughts. Zeitgeist. I come across a mirror and see myself see myself, thinking, procrastinating, neglecting the very simplest idea of my humanity, whereas my existence would make quick work of. That very nature of lightness, a simple mobility would suffice, and delights me with more questions than answers as there are. A voluptuary poses naked and sees beyond the flesh, cock hanging loose and sagging, butt cheeks smiling, fat belly flapping. And one other thing that his eyes would not see that was hidden behind a cloak of tranquillity, yet it burns, hot like fire, his apathy defenestrated. A hollow apparition, a soul, his own personal deity.

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