Tired of Writing: Thinking 

Whenever I engage
in the social function
of self-realization
I am privy to
extraordinary realities –
ties to poignant cues
that all seem
to be placed quite nicely
inside the oasis
of existence
we occupy.

It all seems
a little too perfect.

Almost suspect.

These moments
almost always feel like
time is a swelling balloon –
sure to burst,
but held in
some viscous gel.

This can’t be real.

We don’t even know
how to define time.

It’s because
we made it up
like everything else
we use to delude

© Christopher Rupley 2016


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