now you can dive off the top of bridges which don’t really exist and you can create your entire three dee virtual reality from scratch. and you can play god and you can not need him for the sake of technology and for all of the other so-called life savers discovered by some powers that may be. and when you hear that she doesn’t pray anymore, you can internally sigh in disappointment for her while downplaying it. you can feign unwavering strength as you promise you’ll “say her prayers for her, then” with a desperate laugh you hope reads as nonchalant.
afterwards, you can exist with your head in your lap in the bathroom wallowing in sadness about murdered faith for too many moments before finally acknowledging that you, too, have undeniably reached the same fate. you can wince with disgust as you become aware of your ignorance to this seemingly undetectable act of violence. and you can stare into your own irises as nausea settles deep within until you are unable to recognize any part of yourself.
the dissociation may overwhelm with such ferocity that you might swear jean paul sartre spoke from pure experience in his novel length description of self alienation. you might remember the time you foolishly gazed into a mirror on lsd. maybe you can draw connections from those young hollow eyes to your old empty soul.
you can feel broken then; defeated. you can drink, if you think it would help the grieving process.
you cannot, however, deny what has now become strikingly apparent – that even with all of these attempts at discovery and intuition and ‘seeing beyond,’ not one of us will ever begin to fathom the fountain of lies from which we unknowingly quench some thirst.
we are blind to our love for this blood; for this trash.
you can question, then, if you actually fear the zombie, the vampire, and the roach for their ability to reveal your own reflection when you’d least like to see it.
luckily, you can give yourself permission not to answer.