It doesn’t seem real. The past and the now are so separate from one another. Who I was, who I am and what I think I am are a mystery to me I try to solve each day. The answer is different one day to the next.

One minute I feel I can simageee through the window of the glass that stands between the thought that thinks it is and the ambiguous reality that pretends to be.

Am I aware of the nature that is a illusion? Am I looking at the world as people try to make sense of a image on etch a sketch they think is the word of God when its only a meaningless page in a book written to entertain the imagination of a child?

The people themselves that look to escape the Merry Go Round of a Fairy Tale run to the artist of their creation only to imagine another one that is as empty as the one they think. Everyone looking for reason in a reflection that does not have one. A hologram of a thought painted on a card that is a image on a pond. You can’t escape the reflection as there is no ground it lives on. Its a lonely presumption that has no identity.

A machine created to clean a dirty floor that thinks its flesh and blood because it has a memory bank that can store what ever is programmed into it and that circle of purpose to perform a meaningless task is in search of its mother that it thinks it has.

Even if it could come to realize the meaninglessness of the foray it thinks is life who would be so cruel to let it see it is nothing more then a tool without a soul that thinks its real.

A insignificant piece of paper that looks to letters to wear thinking it will give it a heart, lips and a reason to love. Who would want to know they are a fish in a jar that swim in a circle till they die a forgotten death to the momentary tear of some child racing to another thought to fill its hungry life of self absorption. The fish has no meaning except the dalliance of the intelligence that feeds it dried sprinkles of protein once a day.

So I swim in my cage and look at the other fish who think they are in a ocean to discover the meaning of their fabricated life. They look at rocks and plastic plants thinking they are cities of there own creation when they are merely asleep to the hand the reaches in the tank to create a new scenario of their meaningless life that is only for the amusement of two eyes on a face that really doesn’t care that they think a meaning to themselves that isn’t real.