Another Monday, Trying to understand the complexing. Why do I write to those I cannot see? Like phantoms, we drift through this e-world. Each gaining some satisfcation from what we seek out. Sometimes a shock, sometimes a shame. I look at you like I may own you, Like I can possess you, and your perception. You influence me, and I seek you to. I look for change, and I feel its good. Another monday, understanding your simple, and your complex.

Ghosts, visuals without content. You are only moments to me here. Split seconds, framed and digitalized. My mind sees the eyes of you, the planned portayal you give me here. I look hard, to see myself in you, because, in person, I would be in your soul. I show up wether you like it or not. You nor I can control this. Its two people in a dessert, we cannot ignore the requirement to seek each other out. You may run. I may stand still. But we would only chance these actions on there need. A need created in ourselves by one another. In these digital frames, we can be symbolically alone. We can be ghosts of our own choosing.

I will show you, I can be this... I will be this, I can show you... Show you, ...show. We use this inpersonal web, to decieve - to control reactions. Like marketers, selling a product for its glory. We find showmanship, and opportunity in the ghosts of the statistics we gather. We find blind faith in our own perception of ourselves. As we build this deceit, we believe we have designed some control. Control, like a safe place; conrolling our flaws, and our failiures. I am the son of a salesman, I can see our secrets in each of us this way. I have been a lie to all of you, as you have read me, as you have believed. Like lambs for slaughter, I break you, I possess you. I choose.

Another monday, I keep an eye on you. Most of you, I will never know. Most of you, I chose to see, from my need to find a weaker me. Someone who is more blind, more fearful, more uncomfortable with themselves then I am. I keep you, close to my small heart. I keep your lies, to cover my own failiures. I failled everything I have ever done. I do so even now. I fail to create a rift, a hole in which to hide. For no comfort is saught in those who fail themselves. No trust is given over to the unaccomplished. None of us accept weakness as part of remedy, its more a stain of incomplete effort. I am stained. Another monday, and I will break any faith you have in my value. I will ensure you, I will incapsulate the worst in us, to complete the loss in me. Move along, pay no attention to the man behid the curtains.

Oh my never-friend, you are a haunting image of someone more. You could never be a perfect moment. You can never complete the deceit completely. One of us will see you for what you are. One of us will always know you are not what you would have us think. So, why the fascade? Why do we cling to this fall wall of light? Why do we make lesser gods of ourselves? Why do we chose to be silent and stunted in eachothers midsts, but, flower our blooms in a blissful secret world? Can we not just embrace our imperfection, as the complete mirror of perfection? Would not all our weakness become something impervious to failiure? Are we not simply perfect in unison together? And how far now are we from discovering that? We run. We hide. And we deceive. This wall of false light, eats our fears, with a never ending hunger. A pit of true dissatisfaction. What have we done, creating a sin so vaste? Why did we need a false prophet? Why?

Oh, another monday my silent death. Another clinging pride, another sad hope. Would you find me, would you let me break all you lies. Would you let me give you back your true voices. When will you let me forgive you. When will you scream your thanks. When there is real hope in all of us, when would you end this for me.

Finding a stranger on foot to say hello to, has more value, then 1000 essays about why not to.