We built a sky
to look down from
a metal bird
fueled by faith in equations
and yet
the cities pulse beneath
like motherboards,
veins of electric consciousness
spark
between streetlights
and the weary faces hidden
inside a million glowing windows.
What kind of madness is this?
We hold mirrors
that fracture when touched,
glass splintering reality—
fragments multiplying
infinite
versions of truth.
Are we stepping away
from the real,
or is reality
shedding us?
The world flickers
like static
on an old TV—
comforting noise
until it isn't.
There is no remote
for this feeling
of being both watcher
and watched,
participant and ghost,
creator and captive.
We labeled everything
to anchor it,
but words drift
like leaves
from forgotten trees.
Who decided what's "real"
and why does it crumble
in our mouths,
leaving bitter dust,
a dry echo
in the throat?
Derealization—
the symptom or the truth?
Am I disconnected,
or finally seeing clearly
that the cord
plugged into the wall
was never attached
to anything at all?
We built the cage,
painted it gold
and called it freedom,
but now the bars
are warm to touch,
and I wonder—
are they keeping us in
or something else out?
Are they a boundary
or a warning?
From this altitude,
I see patterns
not purpose,
order not meaning.
Maybe the dysfunction
is simply consciousness
realizing
it has outgrown
the vessel.
Maybe we are not
breaking—
we are waking up,
seeing with newborn eyes,
stunned, confused,
frightened
by the vastness
of ourselves.
Maybe reality
isn't broken—
it's just
waiting
for us
to claim it.
Maybe reality
isn't broken—
maybe
it never existed at all,
at least
not in the way we were told,
not in the textures
we were promised
or the certainties
we desperately
cling to.
We speak of what is "real,"
but who authored this dictionary,
who mapped these territories
of perception?
Simple like that—
we've been handed
a map to nowhere,
drawing lines around air
and calling it a home.
There was never
a reality
to grasp,
no claim to stake,
no treasure buried
beneath a big red X,
just shadows dancing
on cave walls,
projected illusions
we mistake
for substance.
But maybe
it isn't simple—
maybe consciousness
is entangled
in a perpetual paradox,
infinite reflections
caught between mirrors
of perception,
echoing endlessly
until reality
is just noise,
white static
from which meaning
briefly emerges,
shimmers,
and vanishes.
Complex like that—
we're both
the dreamers
and the dreamed,
the architects
and prisoners,
holding truths
so slippery
they liquefy in our hands,
spilling through fingers,
creating oceans
we drown in willingly,
pretending we breathe.
Reality is unreality,
nothing more
than consciousness
in conversation
with itself,
simple
until you notice,
complex
once you try
to look away.
In one part of the world
a boy ducks beneath rubble
as sky breaks open
with steel and fire,
and in the same moment,
a girl polishes a chrome fender
at a luxury car expo—
light glinting off the curve
like nothing else exists.
This is not irony.
This is simultaneity.
Rashomon reality—
where every angle
is the truth,
and every truth
is incomplete.
A scream in Gaza
echoes into
the hum of an espresso machine
in Vienna.
Blood dries
on cracked sidewalks
as LED billboards pulse
with promises
of immortality
in anti-aging creams.
