The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

Ignis Fatuus

I am wearing my red hat. It is my power, my tribute to myself. It makes me sensational, as I cannot feel so normally.
I hide behind bright colors, flashy exteriors, illusions. It is alll illusion. I am not who i want to be, but I can pretend I am the Artist, the Writer, the Poet, the Socialite. Anything is possible with mutable armor, fabric imbued with intent and intent, faiure after failure. It is the object upon which I base my glory, phantasmic as it is.

And if it could be as solid as I deem it, I would win having built permance to my ignis fatuus. But, I have built an impractibly grandiose illusion, one that is so large it is buckling under its own magnificence. Even it can not handle itself which gives me nonexistant chances to survive. I will be crushed by my own machinations. I wonder if I will survive, which ever portion of "I" that exists - created or birthed.

Will I be as I am now but without dragonfly's sweeping about my head? Would I build new facades that drive me to what I want, what ever that may be? Would it take over, the tumultous and dessicated body of my ghosted reasoning? Were would I stand in there?

What is this enigma that I have created? What myth have a built that I do not even know it? I must have built my own Sisyphus, my own rock and placed it on the mountain of daily life. It is nothing that I can understand even though I have made it. Autonomy is winning, and it is ripping my mind into a dichotomous morass of fluid thought and antagonistic equations. The math equates to false pretense with variables of human cognition jumbling the damn thing. It is chaos theory applied to human growth. A fractal of false pretense.

I do not enjoy false pretenses. They are fragile becaues they are based on illgical ground, off the weaknesses I cannot over come. Were I to found my illusions on real bases, on things that I confidently am, they would stand past the rapture. This is not what we seek. We wish to cover our gaps, our iniquities, our base reality. By hiding them we acheive godhood; We ascend.

In ascentson we lose ourselves.
In losing ourselves we become our ideal.
But we cannot get there with wings of ivory, idolizing a personalities we did not constrain when they were characters in an internal play. Hebephrenia reigns.
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