Can you hear me?
I feel like this question has been asked more than a hundred times.
I feel like I've screamed it out so many times that it's now become a cliché,
White noise for the unending satire that is my life.
My satirical life, written by the gods,
Sitting way up there, somewhere,
Quite content with watching me get tossed every which way,
A ping pong ball,
Shipwrecked.
Who's the captain?
Can you see me?
Can you see ghosts?
Do you believe in ghosts?
Do they scare you?
Is the concept of some greater, mystical force alien to you?
Does it keep you up at night, leave you wondering?
Do you sometimes feel translucent, transparent, light?
Do you ever feel like they see through you, pass through you?
Do you feel like you've blended into the colors all around you?
Slowly fading, losing your essence.
Would you like answers?
Good. I would too.
Do you feel suffocated?
By your very own ghosts?
I think you do.
I think you even enjoy it, sometimes.
Why else would you persist on such a futile odyssey?
Determination? Hope?
Some inborn desire to live, to survive?
I think not.
Do you scream when you're alone?,
Hoping to be heard, drowning in a pool of your own making,
Sweat, blood, bodily fluids
What does it matter? Why?
Which is more important?
How did you die? What killed you?
Why did you die?
Do any of these mundane things diminish the gravity of your sacrifice? The significance?
Do they make more sense than your death itself?
Are you so self absorbed that you can not see what is happening?
But perhaps not.
Perhaps it is I who is oblivious
Perhaps the process is just as important as the act.
The Art?
May