Entertainment, yes, the root of all reasons.
Goes up the stage, walks around town strutting
good ol' signature dress and severe make up.
Make up. 'Twas all but a little make up,
at first, but eventually turned into something hefty,
something even he did not notice and cannot identify,
if you could find a shoddier term for 'identity crisis'.
Not a matter of chance, I suppose,
because chances do not really make up good stories.
Not something acute or sudden, too,
because humans are creatures of habit, over time.
Over time, an enclave strumming of mental nerves.
It prompted him to choose to, or not to listen to the voice
that mumbles a very, very low undertone
twice, every 4 in the afternoon, when he is but alone.
So there goes the drag. King. Queen. Whatever.
Like a KitKat bar, confused if it's choco or wafer.
Who is to say, anyway, but he himself?
Catch-22: He's a liar, so much so he could lie to himself.
He drags himself. Half-figurative, half-literal.
He goes up the stage, judged by the way he looks and acts.
Give him a carrot and it does no good.
It actually does him worse. He thinks a lot, and now asks me
What is he? Everything becomes awry, but he forgets,
That there's only one reality to ponder, so I told him:
"Beautiful as it may seem, ye have to accept
the fact that it forever will be just part of your memory.
Of a distant past, or an unreachable future,
I would never, never get to know either."
Because in my fickle mind, he is not my own fiction,
but a reality. "I am you," I said, "and you are me." #
photo credit: deviantart
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