navels

Are we the existence we plan to be?
Even in planning there is spontaneity.
Are we the figments of our nightmares past,
Or just rambunctious forward-thinking rebels?

Fictitiousness, my ample imagination knows
Is a place where one can spend years. 
Living under the bridge of illusion
Not knowing which end comes
And which end goes. 

Now, as I stand on the water
Facing both to and fro
I see the ridges under my eyes 
Grow deep.

Looking out I am yet looking in. 
My reflection is not the same from 
Place to place. 
The walls have molded me
In a plaster of Paris cast.

I smile and seams shatter. 

So many masks,
Yet all are true. 
I wore them,
Wear them,
Retire them,
Recycle them. 

So, are they named?
Do they dream different dreams?
Have they met in a coffee shop
Somewhere in Brooklyn,
And wondered
"Do I know you"?

The water is above me
But I breathe air.
The cars float around me
Too busy to notice
They are all going backwards.

Benign as it is,
It would be good
If I knew
I was going backwards.  
Though going forward
Is going backwards
In reverse
Depending on the level of optimism involved. 

Ah, back on top.
The bridge is below me. 
I can see everything.
But I'm happy
Seeing as little as possible. 

I'll just stare at this candle
Until it moves me.