What is real?
These moments, these instants of passion are but passing and passed, as instants are prone to do.
Here, within, somewhere atop this tower of flesh,
under this disappearing hairline
and behind these windows for eyes, lies reality.
Reality as construct is utterly false,
a conglomeration of five separate worlds
welded together in syncronisity by a few pounds of nerveless tissue,
tainted by the past, and corrupted by hope for the future.
What is real?
What slips cleanly through my eyes, fingers, tongue, nose, and ears
into my brain, unfiltered, unadulterated, untouched by my dreams, fears, and associations?
What is new and blatant?
What is real?
There is little fire in this world, but what flames I can find, I will let burn me.
There, too is little passion, but in that same vein, I will let it consume me.
These moments, passing though they may be, can only be enough when the senses are not.
What overwhelms and dizzies me, what leaves me lacking for breath and for words will be my reality.
What in itself is finite, filling, and fantastic will be what I hold most dear.

AcB 10.17.00