Mirage.

As the layers of an onion make me cry, the layers of life are making me die.

Peeling back the layers one by one, my skin becomes sensitive but that is not me.

I believe I see what others can’t see, through layers of sensitivity the light creeps in.

I feel the light become heat as it brushes my skin.

Light like heat, effortlessly expanding wherever it can go, both have powers that can destroy my soul.

Disintegrating the image I believe I see, the image that others believe they see but it is not the same.

It is not me. Even I don’t believe the image I see.

The image that floats, making goats appear in cloaks in the middle of nowhere, I’m left alone only with the hope I can find my own goat?

But It is hot outside. And I don’t have a boat.

Does anyone have a boat so I can save that goat? No one sees me, hears or understands that what I see in the sand is not reality.

A coward convincing me I should not fear what he believes, all these things they shame me for, throwing tantrums when I disagree.

We are not the same, but we are playing the same game.

As the light becomes stronger, burning through the layers of cold and hot, the image changes in ways I thought it could not.

I now know that what I saw once, can never be the same.

How do I really know what I see? Can it truly be? How can you believe what you see if what you see is not what you believe?

There’s a mirage happening. It is a layer of life. Compacted with infinite wiggles, wiggling with no end in sight.

Amongst the absurdity, to distract you from no nudity, praying for immunity from communities with no duties because gratitude is rare.

With nothing to spare you…

…you believe what is not truly there.


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Published by emriyus

I am human, just like you. I have been around for almost 20 years and although it may not be a lot of time to some, it feels like I've been alive forever. To cope with all the things my life has given me; good and bad, I've always been a writer. Maybe I didn't know or necessarily want to be a writer, but I was always on the creative side, not really understanding how different I was from others; I'm really not that different from you. To this day I'm still eager to learn more about myself, to improve and grow amorphously. I want to use this fuel of constant self-discovery as the direct source of 'energy' that can create whatever I want it to, making writing for me a healthier coping mechanism than most I've tried in my lifetime. That being said, I believe that starting my blog, The Existentialist, (all thanks to Wordpress and Bluehost teams) I finally have the opportunity and creative outlet to unleash my passion for art; writing. The beginning is never easy, and it won't get much easier I am aware. I can only believe in myself and keep my expectations to a minimum; I like to believe I hold no expectations, but they seem unavoidable. To whoever reads this, I'm not one to care about views or reads, I won't encourage/pressure you to read my work because for me, the thrill really comes from just making a finished piece of work I'm happy with, regardless if it is read by others or not; judgement from others is what I've feared all my life. I can only encourage you to have an open mind as a reader and believe in me as much as I believe in myself to accumulate the courage to start showing my creative writing(art) to the world. Everybody creates things in their lifetime, I am just another one of those beings; whether you like it or not, nouns (persons, places and 'things') exist to teach us something about ourselves. There is always more to learn...

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