“Nobody cares about you writer, you’re nothing. You’re just trying to be cool.”
Just trying to be cool, before I fucking die like you. I was born in the night. Where the lights are on but the black has crept in. I used to walk across the empty buildings, it was here in the past, in my black and red-painted trenchcoat, I was building the inside of the egg. She never existed but she was all paid off, his daughter, but you never knew about that-- because I never spoke of it.
It was empty when I walked along the street. Save maybe one friend alongside me, someone who I no longer see anymore, whose mind is more or less as damaged as mine. There was so much there, so many characters, but you can’t understand them like me without seeing it all as real. As a tangible reality.
I won’t fucking live like you. You’d think nobody would have the gall to say it, “I won’t fucking live like you.” You poor little fish, I don’t even swim, I fly through the network of light looking for its expiration. Some would smile at such a phrase, but only few, rarer than the things we might call god or more, and even I, try as hard as I have, cannot truly understand the source of their joy.
The true buddha is eternally beyond themselves. Like darkness in night, swirling around the streetlights. Close enough to where most of us were born.