Public Possession, Obsession, I am, I am Not

How many years does it take for a honest conversation in the mirror?

Honesty, seldom found through the reflection of others....

Pre-determined algorithm,

Absence of choice,

Free movement rendered obsolete,

The simulacra of appearance,

Hollow emptiness veiled by a myriad of masks

Through the abnegation of authenticity,

A solid sense of self through silent illumination,

A void thus remains,

Played characters: theatrical phantasmagoria,

Staged, set and setting,

Impressionable personas under due influence,

Or what wisdom once called possession,

Emotional chameleon,

Rapid permutation at once of the projection of impulse,

Uncertainty of public motive,

Sincerity thus anachronistic,

Unconsciously directed through tyranny but,

on rare occasions, a long forgotten honest daimon

A citadel of sweet perfumes can at once

transmogrify into a sacrament of excrement,

Inasmuch as, sometimes, the antidote to pain is to partake of poison

Reverberating silhouette of faint sounds,

Conundrum emerging from boulevards of ghostly pretence,

What one imagines oneself to be through invocation,

Yet what is now the representation of self through the

Changing personality of curated public imagery,

Becomes denial of what one actually is,

That ideal self.

Mere character,

Or Chameleon,

Not honest beast,

Stripped of its surroundings,

All From ones imaginal phantasia

In the end, from that cacophony of chatter,

Silence will emerge from primordial shunya,

As only the I, as negation of itself, can remain

In times snapshot of permanent fixture

That pierces the veil of maya