Coming to

As every moment passes
I disassociate myself from my immediate past.
I remember the places, the actions –
I’ve aches and reminders,
and the taste still lingers in my mouth –
but who was he?
And who am I?

Everything’s fragmented.
Memories replaying like highlight reels.
Anything in between,
lost.
The connecting links that build this narrative,
fabricated,
forged.

In the absence of recollection,
they write in me a story that only pieces of are true.

The more at one with the world that I become
the further I feel from this inhabited form,
this grand machine, so often neglected,
misused, abused, and bottled potential,
like some alien device we’ve no idea how to use,
or for why its creation.

So we dabble and babble till we’re consumed by delusion,
the illusion of reason,
of answering a call that never spoke or ever cared to utter.

How distracted we become, so expert in diversions,
lest the nihilism consume us and devour our assertions.
These days are growing shorter and these thoughts are but contortions
and distortions of a rationale so thwart by malproportions.

I can feel myself coming to,
retreating from this solitude.
Awaking, becoming,
connected again,

but I cannot help the feeling that it’s shallower up here,
further from reality and closer to the fear
that every day I’m living is a far cry from sincere,
and existence is a lie to which I can’t but help adhere.