Static

I've just started, and, already, I'm tired.
Already the numbing grows defiant,
As that fake embedded quality of being ressonates in every single dialogue
Every single conversation
Every look
Every touch
Every whisper
Every smile.
In every interaction, breaking the static,
The webs carved in, the masks buried in,
Like fishing for roses in a sunken sky.
Making it so brutally easy to walk away.
Instead of pausing and helping out.

So palpable. Solid and expected,
In its omnipresent presence.
Everyone knows it. Feels it. Owns it.
Unbreakable, as if its fragile wires meant existence in itself.
As the framework of mind, body and soul.
What to do, when the mask has merged faces with its wearer?
No, when it has devoured it's user?
Obliterated him.

Scattered bones in the wind.
They dance and wait for you.

The way everyone knows. The way no one tells.
The way it gets shallow.
How it creeps in, and becomes everything.
How viciously selfish,
voraciously polite,
so rapingly nice.
The way no one gets out of their shell.
One day it will be sealed shut.

Just until there's nothing left inside.

Open up.
Breathe.
Dream.