Doesn’t anybody realize, even I don’t buy my own disguise?

It’s a sad symphony, really, this need of mine to fill a void that isn’t
there. And while I understand that it may be my own fault that it’s hit
me right back in my face, it’s disheartening that there are so many
that judge on what’s solely on the surface. As
if humans aren’t multifaceted beings, with layers upon layers of
convolution sewn together in the seams of our animas. As if we aren’t
all multidimensional beings, with wavering hearts and weightless élan
vitals. As if, as if, as if.

I realize I have a tendency to speak, and when I speak- imagine a
downpour of debris, falling from the sky. Imagine concave substance,
imagine gravitational collapses of stars forming stellar black holes,
imagine plastic. Enough to not take me seriously. Enough to recognize
thunderous diffidence. But you wouldn’t. But you can’t. But you don’t.

Let this be a lesson to those who comprehend, to those who empathize, analyze, recognize. There is always so much more.

Perhaps
you’re looking with your eyes, but you’re not really seeing. Your
vision is clouded, and I’m constantly speaking in parables with the façade of Paris, London, New York.

I’m just clearing the air.

(Try breathing, try breathing. I’m trying. I’m trying.)