When Carl Jung visited me one evening in the sunshine
I told her nothing of relevance; only minor details, precautions, sweet impulses to show my passive aggression. This woman is as thick as a rock.
Wishing I could penetrate through her blue barriers. My reputation had been salvaged to a point of no return. The eyes of peers pierce through me even without direct contact. This is no exaggeration. The fact of the matter is that she just doesn't give two shits about me. This isn't the low self-esteem talking either. I know. You just know. You just fucking know when to stop. And I clearly should before it consumes me whole.
Now someone told me my mind is not me. I wholeheartedly agree. Even an inch of my mind's machinations, I find, are barely coherent, although manageably flexible, meticulous, and smart. The person that stares back at the mirror, on the other hand, is indecisive, immature, incompetent, bipolar, and nihilistic. Two completely separates entities both drawn together by the same neurotransmitters. Quite Jungian in nature, Nietzsche too.
Today my rapid eye movement was remarked upon by an acquaintance in the most unlikely scenario. Was I but a vessel, empty and expendable, or a torch-bearer of all that is good and fine in this world? Death and dying. Spitting out missions and visions for a future of uncertainty and heartaches. Wherever the silence reawakens there is always this one wake-up gasp to ruin the magical moment.
Brings me back to images of 'tis little, doe-eyed girl, seemingly harmless yet vile to the level of the utmost cunning kind. Bring me neuroimpotence. Lobotomy to the parietal and occipital lobes, cutting cords that connect the passions with the desires, fantasies. Then the sun, finally brought into an extremely myopic view, engulfs my senses with denial, putting an end to this farce.