You don't know Jack
He will wake up again from his grave of sheets to greet another morning with smoky eyes and a painful knowing.
He called himself Jack once but these days it is something only others call him.
He remembers being different, somewhat heavier in reactions and discernible for his taste in rich buffets served with cynicism on days that seem so artificial and distant in light of his new reality brought to life.
There is a dark sheath and this world is in it, they are compressed specks, rotating pawns in a recurring dream with an open ending.
He sees it. It tortures him.
But pain cannot be something when there is light.
There must be light, it is the only thing that keeps him sane, the thought of some hidden balance existing behind the veil of plastic smiles and unprocessed emotions he tastes in the air when he allows the maelstrom to cover him.
He does not have any choice other than this, to allow the pain and laughter to exist as a reminder that he is still alive, still human even if the feeling seems so remote.
They are pillars, keeping things up, walking in patterned fabrics imposed and superimposed to fit designer needs, a coveted culling if you wish.
He stopped trying to explain to them that this illusion of limitation is but the fascia connecting the horizons of this dream to make things seem a bit more real, they always cry about being bone children born blind no matter how deep his tongue tried to caress their understandings...
He cannot have this. There cannot be imbalance.
He asks himself whether there has always been so many ways to see things, the question already becoming old. Everything seems to bleed their essences through an invisible reflection reflecting upon everything and into him.
He needs it as it needs him to be destroyed and renewed for tomorrows frame..
They carry prisms.
They do not know, this is what the war is about.
There has always been a war, the prisms seem to mean something greater than him or what he can comprehend, he wonders why it is then that he can see needles where others see stars.
Why are the prisms smudged in some ethereal prohibition mist that taints efforts to explain reality to their hosts?
His thoughts become nothing more, they are shears that cannot close, he is too obsessed to think anyway.
He retreats into himself for a few movements of time and contemplation to form an archaic tapestry of images and words to distract him from the growing formation of thoughts he can no longer seem to control, thoughts of changing things, things without balance. This tortures him.
There must always be balance..