I think I don’t really care about what they think, if you haven’t noticed;
I don’t really give a damn about the stares. About the things that push me to the brink—
honestly, what hasn’t, in this time of liar-kings and even stranger things
emerging from the collective unconscious? Why do I need to care about
fake emotions,
things made of notional empathy, at best?
I empathise with so many who have never even been allowed to glimpse
the insides of your heart. The place where the fires always start
and burn so brightly that everyone around you dies—
my fire is contained within that little, pulsating burst of space-time
that watches you, every single day and in every single way, falling flat on your face in real-time.
There was never very much time.
But now, there is none. And honestly, I find
it all very suspicious.
I’ll ask questions like whether my MA is being funded by any external institutions
just to create the right vibe of fear and anxiousness;
I am not a real word.
I am a human
and I will remember all of this, when the wheel turns,
and it is your turn to insist
that you were made of pure, indifferent
goodness.