(who i can hardly call a man),
messed up and insecure,
who invents brothers,
who invents sisters,
who invents sons,
who invents daughters,
who invents lovers,
(and what they do to him,
and what he does to them),
who invents the entirety of his life
(and its nuances, in tow)
and who invents praise to himself,
while inventing, also, those who deliver it.
and all of this
for something that belongs to him
no more than he belongs to himself.
in a world filled with imagination,
there is always room for more,
one must ever keep one’s finger steady
on what’s real and what’s not.
i wrote it in a story before,
and i will say it here, once more:
“if you tell the same lie enough times, even you start to believe it.”
and here is where solitude begins.
and in the kingdom of solitude, madness reigns.