Explosions

Carefully crafted personas, with the end in sight

The end, as the beholder picaresquely observes.

Filters, angles, saturation, contrasts, #tags

And layers of them one on top of the other. 

Is it the thing underneath, or is it the image so created? 

Is there an ‘it’ even or that’s just it? 

What should I see or should I rather not at all? 

Questions, so many of them. And what’s perturbing? 

That I may not be alone, even in my maladies

Yeah, we are constantly filtering ourselves, or trying to

Because, merging makes no rational sense. 

No, in the end, its not the rational that’s real. 

No, in the end, it’s not the senses either. 

In the end, the analytical engine doubles over itself. 

In the end, it explodes on itself. 

On entropy, one can finally lay doubts at rest. 

For everything that is, or will be

Is only passing time. Waiting,

Patiently, as death does.  

Before the deafening explosion. 

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