Lies, lies, lies! All pretense, all for display. A game, a
game of pretend is what we plot, what we ploy, what we play. Can we not see
that our tricks and treasures have become us? That the mask we have put on has
become our new face? Have we decreed ourselves frauds, failures to our flaws?
Hubris, I cry, hubris, we set flight and we fall to our end.
The
treacheries of yesterday bound us to an unfamiliar tread; but the uncertainties
of yet another tomorrow quiver us into the present shell. We take a step and we
must take a step back, but then that step back leads us into an even more
terrible fate: the Past. The hauntings of a Time now gone but whose whimperings
still mock us in our present. But the present is a gift, it must be a gift;
otherwise, it would not be the present. The question is: who the hell unwraps it?
Tear the
paper, cherish not, the gold and the silver, the bow and the ties, the
extravagance of the outer layer provokes us to steal a peak into it; thieves
wanting more than our bounties. We dare to unleash the hidden, the maladies of
Pandora, the truth of the Present. There must be something more, something more, a connection to another time, another place, an anachronism to the black hole of sequence, of space, of the prisoner of vastness. But in that second delayed for query, we miss it, we miss the spark of the moment... I cannot feel his kiss, his love; because my lips were torn by the lips of another. And thus, I miss the chance to touch his heart and reach my own.
Damn all question marks, all remarks of interrogation! They prevent us from feeling, from knowing, from loving, from lying. Lying to ourselves and not to the world.
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