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An Impressionist painting

Or an absinthe fantasy
The world smears around me dreary and splendid
I feel bound and complicated, unable to meld with minds seeking simple thoughts and pleasures. My philosophy seems a formula for life-long unhappiness and yet I feel powerless to choose another way, because there is this sense in my loneliness, mourning and sorrow that I am connected to my authentic self, and years of losing myself in frivolous holidays, in meaningless shows, movies and material objects were wasted years when my brain was sleeping or numb. There is the sense that I am awake now, and I don't want to go back to sleep. I like to feel this pain every day because it's my reality. Shit, I sound like Papa Roach.

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