We Could Be Living

I don’t recognise this old man staring back at me from my mirror.

It feels like I have missed out on watching myself grow. I was a child; and now I am this.

My face and body scarred and marred from years of taking damage upon damage. Tearing myself apart and putting it all back together again. Each time a little bit different. A little off.

Growing is weird. Things don’t fit like they used to. I don’t fit things like I used to.

It sort of begs the question. if I am in a constant state of flux. Then what am I? How could I be defined for any meaningful length of time. When the definition, given time, becomes null and void.

Am I the constant stream of thought that assault me daily? If so, then which stream? There are thousands. Branching off in all directions. Each one as loud and incoherent as the next.

Or am I maybe the ball of energy that burns away constantly trying to stave off entropy? The eternal engine.

I genuinely don’t know.

What I do know is this. I am a relic. The remnant of the age of man’s inhumanity to man. I was born without purpose. But along the way I was repurposed. Tasked with the things I was tasked with. I have had the muddied fingers of shadowy figures in my mind. Manipulating my body and pulling at me like a puppet. Forcing me to play out its grotesque puppet show of nightmares.

This thing inside of me. This understanding. This intimacy with Lady Death. The amount of times I made the pilgrimage to pray at her altar. I can’t take any of this back. There is no forgiving or forgetting. No redemption to be had.

They made me a killer. And I let them.

We can dress it up nicely. Put a good spin on it with years of that Hollywood branded bullshit mill. Warfare is still murder with extra steps added in for good measure.

Knowing that. Trying to live out the rest of my life where the most pressing issues are things like not enough paper that someone else, somewhere else, has applied an intrinsic value that can be exchanged for other goods and services that exist purely for the collection of more of that colourfully valuable paper.

The thing commonly referred to as the real world is fucking insane. One grand delusion that everyone shares in. Made up of imaginary concepts that people invest their everything into and are willing to die for.

We could be living. But instead here we are playing the worlds most pointless game of hungry, hungry hippos.




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Costas K.

Costas K.

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