Burr holes through the skull penetrate consciousness, reminding synapses of their trajectories, their deviations. You may get lost in void gazes, but what images do form on your fovea centralis? What imprints do remain between your sulci and gyri?
Once you were told not to listen to telltales.
Once you were told not to recognize the mirage.
Once you were told to live always, and by the end, to die just once.
What parts do you remember of what you were told?
Do you remember the one who made you listen to all of this nonsense? Or was that one nonsense too?
How dare you talk?
Do you have proper senses?
Do you recognize the inevitable truth?
Do you recognize the almighty one?
What the hell are you preaching? Almighty? Reality reflects in atheism. Don’t let your conscience go numb, hallucinating a reunion between Halloween and the Brahmarākṣasa. Your senses, innervating your existence, aren’t holy, they are intrinsic, what every creature naturally has.
Are you still confused? Damn it, still serving Predicament? You won’t get divine discourse from any incarnated deity.
Believe how the clear sky gets reflected in a sleeping lake.
The rolling polygonal dices, the flying colorful vultures, and the crying sentiments are all trapped. Nevertheless, you are free.
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