This Deja Vu feels like Jamais Vu

I've wanted to use that for a while. Something to say, eh?

I kind of knew what Jamais Vu was, but now I have a clearer idea. So at least I can use it and know what the fuck I'm saying. Which isn't as usual as it should be. It gives me a chance to be a sycophant unto myself. Now HERE - not entirely sure if I'm saying what I intend to correctly. Possibly not, but there is intent beyond the ignorance. Intent of yarn spinning. Like a ball of blue and red thread. Sat upon a table of gold.

Communication is a stumbling block when you seem to lack the skills to ... use it? Is that right? Well that's how I feel. A recurring theme. Wanting to say something. But I don't. Because I'm ... scared? Is that it? I guess - well ... let's ponder over this - you can skip ahead if you don't want to see the psychological arithmetic in progress.

Taking this one example into question. What I want to say is ... I believe to be regarded as ludicrous. So, yeah, it is fear. Fear of being shot down when all I want to say is ... something that if I do, I ... yeah - simple enough. So do I let the fear in for 5 seconds, as Jack would, and then move on? Is it worth it? Or am I, once again, letting the fear control me?

The obsessive in me compels me to react. To move. To survive. And this is where I stand not knowing where I am to go. But I have to go, be somewhere - else I' m nowhere. And then I slip. My feet fall out from under me and wherever it was that I was going. Or being. I'm not there anymore cause I let it fall apart all over again. With that small window of opportunity (as dictated to me by the delusion), I miss. I err. And I land on a bed of broken glass. Shards that spike and poke and pierce and I bleed.

All I have to hide is this person that is I. To do so, there's gotta be segregation of the self. Division based on self-determination. The physical and all that must go with it for comfortable existence. The mental and this face of the bizarre, the ludicrous and the twisting and turning and ... conjuctions to no end.

And then there's the other face that I don't want to see. But I can't show any more than one. Because that shatters the illusion. And shatter it, I do. And clatter it goes upon the staircase of marble and granite. Cold and smooth under winter sun. Fuck off, you pretentious fuck.

I'm trying to say something, but I don't want to say it. It's about as simple as that. It hasn't changed and it isn't about to. So the ultimate solution to this problem would be to ... just fucking say it, no?

Till a step of the way falls to reveal the nothingness upon which we climb to the plains above.