On the birthdate of my memory
my father gave me a bucket made
equally of the outer layer of his soul,
hardened by the friction of his dreams rubbing against reality,
and the soft, malleable parts within
My mother poured the milk from her breasts
into my father's gift until it was filled to the brim
And they asked me to look inside
I obliged
Gazing into the depths of their present
I laughed at my presence
As my father witnessed my mirth, a shiver went up his spine
and, perhaps without realizing it,
he began to cultivate a solid distrust of me
On the day I began to nurture my perception
my father gave me the gift of his laughter
From that gift sprung the ability to doubt my mind
to listen to that doubt like a musical note
to sit back in the throne, separate of me only because I think so,
and truly be aware
of my Being
I'm going to die soon
and it feels, well...
it feels like the tingling of an orgasm
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