Emotional Projections on the back wall of Sad Old 191

Sometimes I don’t know why the fuck I would
choose to spend my time dancing around
just to blow your damn mind
when I find my own completely out of sight
I don’t know where it goes or what it does
and I try to control it somehow from inside and yet up above
and I take my cues from the cues it reads
but where is that information coming from
is it really outside me
or just a branch off the me tree
is it desperation is it love and I don’t ever spend that time thinking about more
than the idea of
you, the concept, the truth
under the desire, the reason, the pull and when I start glitching and itching to feel that feeling about myself
I’d much rather do this instead
ooh yeah
why did you like that, me?
What did you really mean, what are you going to do next girl, or prevent ourselves from being allowed to, who will you eventually become and can I come and are we already there together and this is just a memory, whose voice am I using to make these utterings? Whose limbs are these? Who the fuck is writing all of these things and is she me and that alone blows my mind like seeing an image of an image in a reflection of the image in infinite mirrors stretching beyond the capabilities of my mere eyes existing beyond the page or the screen and am I the sort of being that can do that too I have to be more valuable to the universe then some paint flung to a canvas
for me to observe
right?
I’m alright…
so if you aren’t on that kinda shit
eventually I’ll forget that you exist
worrying about our togetherness is fruitless
unless
you intend on consciously making an effort to expend
significant energy toward it, friend

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