When we speak, do we not see the illusion of our own face — so frail, so ephemeral — yet a form nonetheless, emerging from the nebulous cloud of collective consciousness? We assume our proportions meet some uniform aesthetic standard, something not off-putting to the eye.
She feigns self-acceptance, mimics selfhood — the hormonal promptings of continuance, of demanded impregnation, carry her along. The ignorant, clothed, diapered, mustard-yellow-stained illusion — perhaps it was better left only slightly there, beyond perception.
Indeed, what has become of potential when every action is taken prematurely? Lethal protections impulsively and reactively administered — in jest, yet carrying the gravity of annihilation.
And still, does not chaos, in its strange symmetry, eventually serve a higher order?
Where, then, do we reside amid the vast mass of chasms, mountains, hills — sudden peaks and hollow troughs? Are we but a partial pixel, or the entire story unfolding here and now — a single breath stretched across eternity, held too long, ending in one rigid, final tone?
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