Inbetween No Man's Land

Un enfant tient au gaz d'échappement. Il le respire et le gaz voyage à travers son cerveau aux fins minuscules de rue, de monde, d'endroit connu et de lieu imaginaire. C'est le chocolat chaud qui frappe les nuages, et la pensule avec laquelle on mange la soupe.

And if by any chance one would listen to words as if they were drenched and leaked off the page into the estuary of someone's palm, maybe that someone close by who had auditory nerves enfleshed into their fingertips, one would realise that sense is not made by the chorus of the crowd but by the imagery of the spark that desires to make. But it can't make what it wants, only what it must. However, it can only make what it must when it is what it wants. The first part of the first statement is then not true, and we have an argument where logic takes a seat and watches bored in a corner on a fold-out chair. Shenanigans. So far, the lines have been blurred little, but the sense has not been made. Or has it? Do you get it yet? As you sit in your chair, are you comprehending that what I am writing here is not what I am writing here? And can you also see that no one is writing, that it's all been done, thought, processed, dried, revered, clasped, probed and pieced before you even sat down? Can you see I am being self-conscious? Can you really see anything?

Et nous arrivons ici avec beaucoup de temps pour réflechir et penser à tout ce que ne fait rien. Désolé si je semble existentialiste. Je viens d'être étonné par la guerre entre moi et moi-même, encore. Encore, ça survit. Mais aujourd'hui je me rends compte que c'est bizarre. Ce n'est pas naturel. Ce conflit... c'est tout dans mon esprit, avec des aspects mis en lumière de temps en temps dans mon monde.

This place is dark. It sucks. The corner shadows of the mind in which fear rests restless seem to be static to the ephemeral attempts to think them out. Glorious syntax, will you please unfurl? I don't like praying to doorways. So can there not be so much inbetween? Because it's just so darn confusing. Clarity, please turn on the light. I know you're in the room somewhere and just too obvious to see. I want to see you now, c'est-à-dire, I want to see. Properly. Truly.

In light.
En lumière.

It all comes back to the man in the mirror. I fight and blame someone else and then learn to forgive them and myself. And it all circles back to me. Ultimately though, the biggest fight I can have is with myself, my ego. Against nothing.

And because this doesn't make sense, I am watching it dissolve into the light.