I’m playing through an album I made called Insighting a Paradox. The album holds track 17 as a recording from two past friends who were part of Vancouver’s plan and plot. I still don’t know if they were for me or if they were in the plot that led me to slash my wrist. There are hundreds I knew or knew of my in Vancouver two decades ago, and I forget not.
I want to make peace with my past, yet cigarettes distract me from the truth while soothing my anxiety. The desire to be okay and well holds me in the shell, yet soon the egg hatches and births new life.
I hold the thread of time and add the rhyme to a tad bit of sublime parameters that extend the diameters of the cipher. They lined me up like a sniper and missed the mark, and though some spark the joint, I come from a point and perception of love that I know not of.
Above the skyline, two friends sat and smoked a joint on Louis Riel House’s roof. Though without proof, the doubt holds me aloof. I cannot think of the thought they wanted to stuff in my mind, and with a cord holding the boat to the dock, yet note how I used to ridicule and mock. On the opposite side of the chalk, an outline shares a sign of where we went wrong.
An actual song reminds me they may have had my back and that the debt I owe I’m allowed to repay in respect and truth. Hopefully trust too, yet that might mean the colours shift between the red and blue.
I still cannot tell you, Belle, who was who.
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