Meta

Pretense makes it so much more interesting, don’t you think?

You’re sitting there across from me with your empty smile,
waiting for me to figure it out.
You spout your well-rehearsed lines about love and art and truth.
You know just enough to put up a show that you think will captivate me,
move me, somehow, to think that this means something,
that I am not just another in a long line,
that you will not simply forget when you get to the next one.

To be perfectly honest, I am somewhat flattered
that you have chosen me to be the object of this exercise.
But, then again, we both of us know had very little to do with that.
So you clear your throat and play with your hair,
trying frantically to hide it, to still the blood-curdling scream
that lies only just beneath the surface of those chemically bleak,
desperately empty eyes.

But I’ve seen this film, I’ve heard this song, I’ve read this book.
I know every line by heart, and I can glide gracefully along every turn.
I would tell you the story, but I don’t like the ending at all.
I know I’m being selfish and hateful, and I will pay my due penance,
but I simply cannot let go of the Meta.
It watches me, watches you, and, feigning an objectivity that the Buddha would envy,
it draws a seemingly perfect map which appeals so much
that I, in my weakness, obey and follow blindly.
So please don’t prolong this any more.
State your design or leave.

Now that you have heard me,
seen my calluses and conversed with the Meta,
now that I have shown you,
will you be able to sleep tonight?