Room With Nowhere to View

A human may have all the room to his pleasure, but never anywhere to set a course to, or from, or any reason to do so, or not to. Completely free within boundaries. Space enough to utilize with nothing to activate a change.

Not This Reality Dancing On My Head

The reality is that there is none. Sebastian will look for order and direction from the speculation in other's supposed realities. He thinks perhaps there is something to consider, something to link into a reality. But these are constructions and will crumble. But these must suffice for some time and poor soul, he may even find solace- dare we say it, confirmation, of his own shadowed understanding within them... these are easily drained of meaning. Illogical pursuits soon fade. Beginning with creations from minds that travel speedily beyond his, he follows them, he is thirsty; the old metaphor remains. And so, they are not of his own doing for most unfortunates this is the solid truth. The well is not there for a sweet drink, nor the distant shaded pool an attainable refuge. Merely to cling to anything that passes, behaving parasitically, he is not one who is unaware of this nature, or switched off to it; he knows it like a curse. Perhaps this makes for a more unfortunate soul. Those who do not detect this misery or look away from it foolishly are pitiful. Yet it is equally foolhardy to stare at the sun. The allure is often too strong, it will not let him alone and as it pulls at him it hides his demise as a puzzle maintains it trick upon those who most yearn to solve it. All choice was but illusion. All reality a fabrication of a funny fool. He will continue to seek out fallen crumbs from a more nourishing table, for in this pursuit alone does he regenerate for brief moments, until his true condemnation is made known in all of its jests. When the table is cleared, the poison is always set in its place, ultimately destroying its victim in a deathly surprise. Much like one man head on against many guns, there was never a chance, only doom in the very act of reaching for one. 

Identity

Sebastian does not know what this could be. It cannot be how he behaves, behaving is not constant or an ultimate; nor can it be what he knows. Those who theorize on this idea do so carefully, but theorizing, arguing, is not knowing. Invention is not knowing. It might be a solution. Does one need not know, than to trust a possibility? 

The Folly Madness

Sebastian feels the influence of wild power. Stretching out across unprotected humanity, it is there pressing into his own thoughts, interrupting his words before he knows what to speak. Leering into his eyes from many strange faces. It lays siege to shy souls. How to escape it? Defeat it? Could he confront it? It bestows a disrupting passion upon him. It takes on the disfigured form of that Unknown, resting in the dark catacombs of the pierced and bloodied cliffside; the brittle bones of those unfortunates who dared battle the force where it lies wiped out, rendered spiritless as a sheath without its sword. Not all are Saint George with sheath and sword. Not all terrible unknowns can be sought in one place.