...someone is out there, playing, praying, perhaps simply portraying themselves in lights unbeknownst to them in past adventures, during past tribulations. Out there in the rain they play the puppet, withering away to life's fatal touch - the wound that festers and never heals. The strings dance along like permanent rain, masking the deceit and the many triumphs we have chosen to bury, simply because we can. Because the truth is ugly and does not cease to show its face around corners and in shadows.
Still, for all we know, it makes us better individuals, better citizens. It is liberating no matter how intoxicating. The pages of the book continue to turn as the seconds tick away and our lasting memories shift onto themselves; consolidating the present and throwing away the left-over cigarette in the ashtray of tomorrow. Sooner or later we find ourselves, there I say, we find about ourselves things we were too blind to see. Even in the mask of night and isolation, one can truly find themselves.
The ashes continue to bubble up in dark clouds, the strings moving along fast and furious - yet we still find ourselves, our center, our raison d'etre. It's a delicate art form, deadly and life-affirming. At the end of the day, the rats come out in a circle to the tune of the piper. The question becomes airy, like a whisper...what are you doing for the rest of your life...?
...someone is still out there, playing, praying, perhaps simply portraying themselves in the illusion of the inevitable dance, for all we know.
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