For all the books and words and velvet, I know nothing. What can someone say of the world, he who regards himself a stranger? Everyday I look myself in the mirror and staring back at me...a stranger. What I do know is that everyone thinks I have it. What I do know is that I absolutely do not have it.
I am grateful, so very grateful for this...this proverbial mess. Like a star breaking up, the tragic beauty that oblivion imparts to every piece of earth that walks the planet. But the thing is, no one hears when I say I don't have everything, because they can't hear themselves over the sound of their scoffs.
Dramatic to the point of fault, drama and hand gestures and dialogues, oh the power moves rain down and I truly don't regret even a single moment. But for what?
There is something confusing about what I am. Self loathing and yet egoistic to the point of a blaring God complex. God complex. Is that what it is? That's what it looks like, doesn't it? But the mirror begs to differ. The mirror has seen me, my sweet Roman slave. It knows that deep down, I know that I am nothing, a shard of glass encased in silk, believing that it is diamond.
I have it all, don't I? I have it all, and yet I hunger for the one person who will see me and see within me the hunger. Starvation to the point of breaking. Hunger to be known, seen, understood. I have it all, but what use is a thousand burning stars spitting heat from so far above, if the wood within my fireplace refuses to burn?