this is what we all do.
whether quietly internalizing,
or yelling, screaming, criticizing.
this is what we all do, even you.

the stream of things of little sense.
the thing we label consciousness.

the soup we stir of long psychosis,
boiled down to one prognosis.

end itself of all of self.
the race we run as someone else.
that other thing that wasn’t you.
that person that you hardly knew.

but it could have been.
and it will be.
so mourn the now that echoes empty.

and know that soon enough it can’t be.
lost to living years you can’t see.

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