How long have you known? Everyone wears a mask, no matter how far off the marked path you stray. Did it get to you all at once—or did it slowly curdle your blood until you have to take a break and start the recipe from scratch? I’ve been screaming in your face for so long now. Coming off unsound to all that had yet to discover the secret. Discounted—how else did they expect me to watch your back? Took my glasses and I could not see farther than the bars of my cage. Who’s full of regret now? When I was the only one to tell the truth from here to the Atlantic Ocean. Casted as a character; of course you had to play your part. But perform a role too long and you become. Camouflage—harder and harder to decipher. Masquerade ball—worn far too long and there’s nothing left underneath.
Panic set in. Dragged out in the opposite direction of the right decision. These quarters would be the demise. Every pillar I constructed somewhere else would crash and fall—broken into tiny pieces of non-existence. I’m shamefaced—an incorrect choice and soon you will see. You are it. Only you, and I need not seek refuge. Cautious, just because I could not tolerate your permanent absence. Fallible person—please keep me anyway. Please.
Missing this punk alotta bit.
Missing this punk a little bit…
How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
—David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King (via coffeemaps)