Who is Who

"To exist within myself, and to be anyone but myself?"

The sun came over the same hills as the moon did, and both shined down on us. Somewhere, someone walked back in a house, a child on the street, or the playground, lost in the woods for the first time, instincts kicking in and everything else matting so much less than it ever has. I remember, the same as you, and everyone else will remember: when we are threatened, everything stops mattering. Philosophy, your God or gods, the clothes you paid for, the normality of your life. The second it all is about to go away, it is already away.

Do we trifle within our own desires? Or is the devil a child and us ants in the sun?

There was a fireplace, fire roasting softly. The crackling being the only sound in the house, some one scribbling in the corner: there was a Bible in those pieces of symbols and letters and words, religion in the boys eyes. It's the same thing that's within all of us to some degree; we want to see ourselves in each other. It's why we share, why we unite, why we rejoice and why we live for those close to us. He looked up, eyes cracked open, raw, tears almost.

The thought that weighed down on me was that I could never escape my own mind. It was a prison that was life, or everything. The walls and the doors around them all were all the same. I would interact and soon find myself silent, only speaking back in my mind, and eventually the words of other just illusions in my mind, possible futures. I had stopped writing my Bible. No, I had never started writing it. The fireplace was silent, the day still alive, music filling the room.

I looked down and asked myself which I was in.