How long ago were we imprisoned in the cold
of that old place, the Past, as its indentured servant?
Why can’t we now recall a breath of our own fervent
longing for release from that damned stranglehold –
why has PTSD not become our soul’s sole destiny?
Where has it gone, that vacancy which once felt
bleakly unendurable: how have we ever dealt
with it? We’ve simply found another sort of equity.
Our waking fantasies we now know are our only store
of consciousness, reality their child. Our perception
is the only show. Any other take on it? Deception.
Proof this isn’t hell? We aren’t lonely anymore.
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