Freedom as a mere spectacle?

How to tell a shadow from a walking dead? 

How to differentiate the fictive from reality? 

When you live so much in your head, 

how to tell you are alive outside of it? 

How to tell you are not losing it, when the silence between the whisper of a leaf and the storm isn't deafening to your ears? 

How to tell the fine lines when it is alright for demons to cross-dress and spook you? 

Where do I draw the line? How do I justify mourning? How do I giggle in the face of it all? 

How soon are you going to slip off from my arms?

How soon will all the water in my eyes appear nonsense? 

How much hate do I carry to bedevil me? How much memory is going to leave me in utter shame? 

Where do I cease and you begin? 

Further Readings: 

• Simulacrum, Jean Baudrillard

• Wilful Suspension of Disbelief