Feeding Reality

What if you are unable to live in your reality?  What if you live in what ‘could be’, as you slowly enable the impending explosion of your future?  What if you are so scared of failure that you cannot admit the truth?  My reality is nothing more than a projection of my hopeful futuristic reflection…

My reality is nothing more than a projection of my hopeful futuristic reflection…

I don’t fool myself into believing we all aren’t scared.  I strive off of the thought that someday people will think I am somebody.  I surround myself with those who I can shine around.  Do I only teach to feel that I have something to offer?

There is a deeper truth for which we all search.  The pale flesh tones of a weak mortal, silhouetted by the darkness of fears and unknowns…   The actors on stage and screen are only a magnified version of our desires.  We all play a part in the big show, whether it is in the audience or on stage.  We are what we choose to be. Those who don’t act are watching others and dreaming.  Those who do act comprise the fake reality others dream to partake in.  I once sat in the audience.  I dreamed of being accepted.  I wanted only for people to like me for who I was.  It was a defining moment when I stumbled onto the stage.

The time of self-definition… the moment where we face our fears.  Will it ruin us, or will we come through?  Either way we become an outcast or a fake.  There is hope for a select few outcasts, who are just different enough to make it.  However, the ones who defy our reality or frighten our mental stability are shunned.  Thus their creativity is only appreciated once their life is over, and they are no longer a threat to the fake shells.

Thus their creativity is only appreciated once their life is over, and they are no longer a threat to the fake shells.

I realize that I am a fake. I could never face rejection or disappointment of creative differences.

I do not read what I write, for its only foolish drivel.  I open up my minds eye, and pour out the incoherence that builds up and makes me feel human.  I save it in deeply reclused folders and dismiss my warmth.  Why do I bother saving what I won’t read? Maybe because it is the only thing I have to remind me that I am human.  My fears lie in if I were to read these scraps of my humanity and feel nothing.  What if the only realism I have is nothing but dribble.  I am afraid of reinforcing my fears of indifference, so I embrace my reclused folder of my unread illusions.