To Reason.

I don't believe in reason.
Not anymore than I did before,
and no longer. I'm stronger
now than I was, once upon
a time when I held out that
you knew better than
I did. And I hid myself
away inside myself, just
hoping that maybe I'd learn
the coping skills that
might let me free,
freer than a bird
has a right to be,
or a ship,
sinking on the roughest waves
of a dying sea.
I don't believe in reason,
and there's a motion
from the back of my head
telling me that I ought to
start stealing sign posts
and putting them in my front yard
to prove that I've escaped from
remembering. Someone said the thievery
might be soothing.
Maybe I said something to that effect,
only the amnesia's hitting again
and I don't even remember who you are,
let alone who I used to be.
I've given up on reason, and I don't need
to tell you why.
Just suffice it to say
that we don't get along
anymore.
I've lost count of the scorecards
that show I'm heading off
in the wrong direction -
stage left -
and yes,
I've left the stage.
Magic me onward, and I'll follow
the pages that lead me into imagination
and fictional lands
that change with the altercations
of the sand that makes time move
forward.
I told you this morning,
yesterday morning,
Friday morning,
that I don't believe in reason.
There's seasonal depression to go along
with that.
Maybe a drop or two of my own brand
of insanity, and some kisses
thrown into the mix
for flavor and (in)consistency.
I don't believe in reason
anymore.
How could I,
when reason is the reason
you wandered away from me
when maybe I most needed you
to stay closer?
Not just physically -
because I knew you couldn't,
wouldn't,
shouldn't
- but mentally.
The vacancy does much to confuse me
even as it loses me in the void
that your explanations
forget to finish.
I don't believe in reason.
Not anymore.
And I don't have a reason
not to,
but that doesn't stop it being
truer than all the lies
I've never told you.