The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 20

Then there are those rare moments, those magnificent, terrifying moments, when you truly glimpse someone; when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, veneer spread marginally too thin, and suddenly –inexplicably- you see them. Your lies of them too are suddenly insufficient; all that you would have had yourself believe –hold on to- are whispers amidst the perfect storm of abject realisation, birthed from a silent thought’s flutter in the furthest recess of your mind, aligned –to your despair- with all the wisps of memory you would have had erased, all the indefinable fragments –unspoken and unspeakable- of an intuition long since secluded, glances left unattended, gestures unexamined. The tempest irrevocable, your untruths are dust; and you realise –you are reminded- that they too are broken, they cannot fix you. And so the broken break in you –you broken wretch- what little is left to break. With inaudible sighs the cracks inch outwards a breath at a time, unseen but nothing if not felt, until they shatter, shards etching into your very sense of self with every tentative touch of examination; to understand it –this new fracture in you- you must pay, you must suffer. You know this, but as with teeth budding those thousands of years age -when last you felt whole- you cannot but caress them, suffer to feel them, pay to comprehend them. Each cut is sharp, deep, and they will not be dulled, will not be satiated – this is revenge for their internment, for shrouding them –hitherto frozen- in your lies. They are one yet more shattered illusion to be circumvented if you wish them to let your mind’s soul go unharmed, but you are stubborn and will not take the wiser man’s path. You let them cut knowing they will heal, but the scars are now many –too many- and you remain a fool. Why do you worship at these crystal idols? Why do you let yourself be lulled by their glisten? Why do you hold them where they can only fall, shatter; another illusion awaiting its revenge. And you will rage, o you wretch you will rage; you will hate and you will curse, and it will -for a time, yet once again- consume you. For a time it must, for how else do you break your broken idol’s hold? A blemished angel remains an angel, but a hated one –fallen from grace- might yet become a devil, and you cannot be called for its sins. Yet ...yet having wrestled control from the adversary, rage’s purpose dissipates. The struggle –it seems- was the function, the only true meaning; now what remains is nought but a hollow victory over an enemy never truly hated, an opposition never opposed; they merely stood some distance apart, holding firm in some existential ground no less honest. So that when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, suddenly –inexplicably- you see your Self.