Heat

It’s hot outside.
The sun is so bright, it turns everything to a shade of yellow, and you can feel the heat by just looking at it. People avoid the sun to run to their air-conditioned caves, all cool and sufficient. A mass denial of reality takes place when the people in their office buildings turn the aircon up to maximum and wear double layers of clothing, even jackets and scarves, and still say that the city is a hot place to be. It really depends on where you are at any given moment. Right now, my eyes feel the heat seeping out of the window, yet the room is cold and contradictive. Even my subconcious mind and body feel the paradox, and does not know what to feel; resulting in cold flashes, and the feeling that I’m going to be sick in a few days.
So inside the room, the heat is an illusion of the eyes, and the body can’t believe it; it can’t make up its mind.
I close the door to attempt to block any outside interference, and contemplate the color of the room. Things are never what they seem to be, and you never know until the last minute. I do not trust whatever reality unfolds before my eyes, or in my mind, and so despairing about it is pointless. Nothing is important any more, except the constant internal battle between illusions. Illusions are a lie, it’s just the matter of knowing which lie is closer to the truth: does the room feel warm, or the room feel cold?
I do not worry about my work as it is not my life anymore. I do my best, but it no longer defines who I am or what I hold most important or dear to me. The job is my illusion to others to elude them from the truth. The smile, the talk, the confidence, all a ruse to mislead, to get the lie to continue. Same as the sun today, as long as we believe it to be hot, it will be hot.
The fiction that is myself then becomes reality to others, and other people’s fiction become my reality. Lies are real, the truth cannot be trusted anymore. Truth is the illusion, and the lies are the only thing you can rely on, depend on, as you know that they’re always there. So, would it be better to lie to yourself all the time or still look for the truth? The truth itslef is comprised of well-made lies. Then, lies and truth have no difference, no importance, and no relevance to anything.
Nothing means anything, so why worry?

About barijoe

Failed Musician, Reformed Gadget Freak and Eating Extraordinaire.

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