"...But it's beautiful."

Sometimes I wonder the inevitable wonders. Why am I here? Who am I? How much control do I have? And then I remember that it will soon be over. As long as it has a definite end, in relativity to the time I will be absent from my decaying corpse, I have a short life. But how am I alive? How am I alive, rather, in relativity to others? Does the woman with sharp green eyes and unkempt dark hair have a brighter perception than I? Am I perceiving things wrong? Am I at fault? Are these problems obtained by shameful means, are they lessons I’ve ignored? I’m a fool then. I’m a fool to have these skewed images and perceived senses. It’s not there. And if it isn’t there, where am I? I’m not here. I can’t be here if all I’m doing is taking up space while my mind is off corrupting itself with temptations of its own. It’s so easy to let the sleep take over, even while I’m awake. But it isn’t sleep at all, for I wake up rested. But I’m not awake at all, for I sleepwalk and wipe at my flesh. I was free when I was empty of experience, full of life. I was programmed to do this. To stop feeling the real effect of the swaying dandelions, and wishing for old friends. It’s like a motion picture now. I know what I should say, but I don’t experience the thoughts for myself. There it is again. The tapping, the creeping of the particles, cloaked in clear blankets, dragging their boneless bodies across my uncloaked flesh. And it’s gone. I’ve resisted the urge to let go. To sit back and listen to my mind is to watch a film that projects something real. It’s just as real as the things I experience, anyway. And this is my trapped emotion. This is the way I was born not to be. The way it ought to be. And I wouldn’t rather be anyone else. To lack this confusion is to stop the room from spinning, where every corner holds a new image. Where every rotation reveals a melody, and every silent moment unveils a scrambled mass of ingenuity. Its not accessible, but it's beautiful.