For a
moment, focus is located, as angry as somber. It’s an analytical shift, girt in
anguish, beyond appeasement. I wonder through persons—condemned for confidence,
an alien in an office; as alienated chatter, as see-through kindness, or an
absence, thereof. We mimic life, where one falls in love, with this image of
self. I’m careful to see us, as often to wander thoughts, this field of
fantasy; where psychs are friends, an ex is trying, or rather, a craft has been
perfected. I see an addict, as wise as G. E. Moore, as stealth as an obvious
serpent. It sounds mean—this line of perception, as infuriated with persons;
plus, a mystic, as cold as islands—this perfected religion; as protecting self,
as reading wisdom, as affected by shifts; but more daydreams, plus, cultured
visions, this distinction misunderstood. We ought
to behave, in favor of what’s good,
according to consensus; where a claim
for bad, must accompany a premise,
supported by sound reasoning. We take it for granted, this line of thought,
while misinformed; or we choose a lighter path, as to forfeit one pain, for a
set of other pains. I ponder an ideal, as one prone to folly, reading into
gestures. It’s a sullen game, to anger opponents, as partnered in frustration; as
Carl Jung, seeing for difference, subject to part ways; or Karen Horney, to
take a stance, as to pave individuality; or our gadfly, Socrates, as refusing
compromise, to opt for hemlock. I’m peeved—as taken by games, as realizing
certain subtleties; where profession is life, this sketchy pleasure, as setting
out to disrupt fate; but it couldn’t be personal; while merely habit, to probe
while stinging a myriad of souls. I aim to explain it; it must possess
reasoning; for mere joy would ruin affects; while it couldn’t be
attraction—this great delusion, as scheduled for broken souls. It must be
riddle—this torn alert, affected by a plethora of motivations. I’m lost to
fathom—while plucking through pressures, cautious of future events.
