Boy does the truth hurt

Sometimes I don’t think I can take it. The reality of agendas. It is the most heartbreaking phenomena in our lives. The mind games. The pussy-footing. The endearments without sentiment. Oh God, the romanticism without follow-up. You begin to question your sanity. Is it me? Is it something about me that encourages the shallow faithlessness? Can it all be as simple as the side-bars in People Magazine or on the New York Times editorial page? Are we still unable to control our behaviors and thoughts, after the psychoanalysis and post-graduate studies? Our evenings of insightful reflection or discussion? Are we still apes at heart and groin? Why am I stunned? Why can’t I accept the world as it operates? Why do I remain in a pink cloudy blockage? Am I too weak to bear the truth of ape-land? And if so, where can I go to escape it? Is solitude the answer? You are told you are loved and you are not loved. You are told you are hated and you are not hated. You are told the operation was a success and it was not. You are told this and that, promised this and that, and after the promises, the promiser fades away, sobers up, or moves away, and you are left with your notebook and property; resume and postcards, bills, notices, and much, much blame. Blame. The great advantage. You did it to yourself. I didn’t do anything to upset you. I am going to stop smoking and go to meditation class. The eyes of a lover suddenly rational. The warped memories of the past leave you helpless to defend yourself. These are the people you must stay away from, but you cannot. You crawl on your knees for their approval, and you will never get it. Your crawl is a time and energy waste, but you are fullfilled because you are one step closer to destiny. The destiny of death and the end of promises.


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