But it still leaves the
question, as it remains;
what is this paralysis
- this waking death -
that cripples me,
and only does not when
I turn to confront it?
Doth it play with me, am I a
pawn to its orchestrator?
Laughter do I hear behind
the curtain, while flailing
I burrow further into
this terrible illusion.
So it is. If my actions are moot,
my mind can be free, hopefully.
Dreaming this ignorant bliss.
What of the mind as it seems?
What is the mind? Is the mind?
Trapped in ignorant bliss.
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