We start with the Public.
That is the outer face, the mask that
we wear,
A web of skin that can peel apart at
any time
But can fuse tightly when never taken
off.
Next we have the Fiction.
This is the tricky fantasy that we
believe
It is the world we inhabit, that hides
Corners and holes we trip into blindly.
After that is the Angel.
We seek salvation from this broken
person
Or object, or job, or technological
gadget,
And only a shiny veneer separates us
from disappointment.
The ending is not part of the tale
It could be Collapse
Or a Manual Reset.
But a better ending comes with Truth,
Scraping away the outward sheen until
we see ourselves dead,
Taking our life away until we surrender
to be reborn,
Not to walk again in the illusions of
the carnival midway,
But to breathe the sharp, stinging air
of freedom, unafraid.
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