A perfect denial.

It seems that personality, intoxication, and experimentation are not words, but lifestyles. It feels as though I am playing a very thorough game of "Guess Who?": the faces of the past blur and manifest in the novelty. More so; the consequences revel within it. My question: "Can I win?"; what if every face conceals the same identity? Who is there to trust? A fickly self-preservation of face is taking place, and the shock effect of drugs, sadness, sex scandals, fame, suicide and murder no longer have effect. They have become themselves one supreme incessant somnolence. I believe the players have forgotten who indeed they are playing, and I have the tendency to catch them when they slip.

I witness people caught up in identity; struggling to find, or struggling to maintain. What is this struggle in aid of? I find myself playing the game with great intent. Yet still, I do not lie about my smile - I have no perfect denial.

My desires might include wishing I had known you for my entire life, to reminisce not only of our time together, but of that before us and the world as it is now. To have known something blissful; quiet, and altogether subtle and incorrupt.
When smiles were smiles, and tears were tears. I do not want glass emotion.

The generation is different; less involved than the apathetic - the apathetic were non-caring about something, and from this non-caring about something, nothingness in the minds of the living was bore. There is a world where the sick are prescribed an identity; where the less abled are looked upon, and helped. The retard struggles, and so too do we; struggle to understand who we are, where we are, if we are - the pure frustration and anger that spews from non-understanding, and being a human, injured fervently and with no diagnosis available. The classification of intelligence and emotion as feverishly undesirable, we might as well gag our mouths, plug our noses, block our ears, stitch our eyes, and numb our hearts with icicles.

It's so perfect.