I wear a mask made of nothing, you don’t see it on my face but I feel it all the time.
The story has it that I am hideous, but god knows who has that story!
I wove the mask I wear with the labor of time; it is a conglomeration of conflicting stories teamed up against all moments of serene wakefulness.
I am not flesh, neither a mind nor a soul; I am made of narratives, of twisty corridors to the hell of my understanding.
My mind is like cheese, made of holes and stink; they are my sweet defects!
My mind-holes are unemployed; all day they hang around the 7-Eleven of my mind (yes, there is a 7-Eleven in my mind; it sells only bullshit.)
Sometimes I am even a coffin, a dwelling place of the unconscious, that everpresent but unfound swamp of undifferentiated pain and bliss.
I am that center of the world that no place or thing in the world can make it centered.
I am the ever off-centered and discontented center
My condition speaks in a voice that is heard but can’t be spoken to others, in a personal language even I can’t translate!
and so I have been told: “speak,” to speak so the voice is proven wrong.
I must speak, speak to the heights what I hear in my depths.
I used to live in the mountains lest you see my true face;
but what of it? It is in my hideousness that beauty stands out.
I am exhausted, fallen, and worn out; not by this world but by the play masks made of nothing.
There is so much evil in the saint and so much sanctity in the evil.
I am an organic paradox, made of mice and masks.
But I know! all will be well as long as I don’t step into the damned 7-Eleven of my mind.