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Plagarism of another kind
i have no gift. i was once told of my talent but it was only the emptiness eluding me into thinking i was whole again. i see you, and hear myself, the thoughts, the senses. i smell and taste and touch the intimate ancient offerings of my brain, but they are not truly a part of me. They are only mere copies of the Everystory that exists in us. i had hoped to be included in this dance only to discover i was already mingled and that i didn’t know the steps any longer. So completely a piece of it that to separate would mean certain death. my death. i cannot risk what i do not know, and i do not know that i can risk that. But i do know there is light or i could not see in the dark, or know that dark is even there. i am not creative. i walk because i was taught to. i think other people’s thoughts, shuffle, categorize and reorganize them to call them mine. They are not. i know that sunset is a brilliant one. i do not know why. Tied to this aged tale with its recycled characters and spit-back words. Inadequate. The sand swallows my feet as i plod along the shore. As i think those thoughts of others, see their visions as my own, hear their sounds, taste their senses, and touch their beliefs i survive only on the energy they supply. i am Electricity. i ponder not for the sake of doing so but because of it and pray that as i look into that perpetual crystal globe that one day... I will breathe. Lisa Game, 1999 |