specious horizon...

You’ve written the epilogue
You’ve thrown the sand on the coffin
You’ve sealed the window
You’ve crushed dried flowers
You’ve dropped the curtains
You’ve exhaled the regrets
You’ve thrown the key away to lose it
You’ve shut the memories away
You’ve alienated the immediate
You’ve removed the brush from the canvas
You’ve broken your journey
You’ve reached the end of your rainbow.
You’ve discovered your pot of gold.
You still feel hollow….
Why?
Mabbe coz the horizon’s not real.

The horizon is a sadistic tease, seems well within your reach...like spurious search for mississippi muddpie...
A utopian disillusion, but sometimes, ignorance is sunshine. It keeps you warm.

However when you bury this ignorance of the horizon, and know that there is no meeting of the sky and sea; the real seems disoriented.
You are an ardent traveler; thus you continue to pursue other landscapes like the exotic rainbow. You make your way to the end and discover your pot of gold. You’re still not happy.
Are you stupid? Are you fundamentally not a happy person? Are you chasing lost ignorance?
Your fallicious illusions appease to the real world that surrounds you, aesthetically perhaps, yet you pursue the real in your illusions. However, when the real is well within your reach, you withdraw or feel like a sinking ship. It isn’t conscious. You cannot control it.
Are you stuck on your own illusions?
Are you apathetic to the real?
Are you happier pursuing an illusion?
Does the real disturb you?

There’s something incomplete here…
Mabbe coz the horizon’s not real.