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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