Purgatorial

Sometimes I sit and scales fall from my eyes. Everyone around me appears in masks, in dress costumes. I look up at the television screen, I see figures walking down the street, in the restaurants, in the banks. They are all wearing faces grafted onto them, out of some fierce necessity, rolling out of the sidewalks. Everything is a vast masquerade, lost in my shoeboxes. It is here, among the faces and the sweat, that I see myself as I could be, perhaps am. I also am unreal, most of all from my own mind, my own will. It is the hypnotizing agent, constantly lulling a state of easy compliance, and if I'm not careful, it will have me. In these moments I see actions stretch out before the tableaux, and I see the whore in me succumbing to the safety, the assuredness, the false confidences and mediocre journeys.