Monological disease
My solipsist world is silent.
The space around,
Usually a friend I talk to,
Here and now is
Empty of dialogue.
These days my verbal flights
Keep to themselves,
Monoglossic in their solitude
And intention.
I feel like I plagiarise
Myself
By voicing the same feelings
Again,
And again,
And again.
And yet what can I say,
What can I write,
But the flows of thoughts
That traverse me
And constitute the fabric
Of my very
Being?
Is it enough, I wonder?
Is it enough to speak your mind?
Or should I transcend
The emptiness and silence,
And escape into the
CrowdednessOfLies?
Answer me!
Answer me, I beseech you!
I conjure you!
Enter my existence,
Materialise into immanence
And relieve me
Of this monological
Disease, this nightmare
Of a life!
