Ramblings of an insomniac
Each day I sit here and stare out in to the raw and uncensored world. I know how many things truly are... and still the words of illusion have a power over me? How can this be so? To haunt my soul to such depths of profoundity these must be the works of tricksters or else I am in fact observing an illusion within the illusion. How many heroic truths outweigh the dark deeds of our world? How does one who's hands are bound show the world that the garden of Knowledge is entagled in weeds? How is it that so many can only see either the blooming flowers or the invading flora and none of their opponent? Could it be then that there is yet Truth in these illusions? Illusions in Truth? Such questions have driven men to insanity. For me, they drive me to insomnia.