Words exchange minds.
Reality is mutable.
Connotation is a function, of where the action is said to currently have its flashpoint.
What is good? What is not?
Who is right? Who is not?
Hold on,
……….
Hold on.
Do not disturb; words shuffle about.
Awareness is cursed with finitude of extensiveness.
Words are a mirror.
But most of my reflections, are ones I’ll never get to see.
Fuck.
You color me too ill-intentioned.
There’s too much darkness there- that is not me.
Will you even listen to me?
Or will these words- my words, bounce back?
Echoing back into my own ears- getting nowhere- all but populating the inert, tepid void that exists in the space beyond the mirror- the space where that me- that me that is not really me, has been confined to exist.
Whose words are responsible?
Whose words put me there?
Whose words gave me that pigment? That pigment is not mine.
Who will you trust instead of me?
Who, are you trusting instead of me?
If this is zero-sum, then someone, somewhere, is lighter as a result.
If, the quantity of pigments is finite. If.
Ah.
Words exchange minds.
Reality is mutable.
“A single hurt color”, and “a system to pointing”.
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