This Truth

I was a dj.
I made music so thick it was like cream.
I made music that people made babies to.
That men fell in love
That women stopped worrying.

I was a dancer
with a kick so high
I folded my body in half
with rhythm so ingrained in my sinew
it was impossible not move
not to be noticed
not to be spellbound

I was an artist
who painted vivid dreams
so as all the dreamers could smile
so that i mimed life
and yet made it more beautiful at the same time
I could paint hope, and fear, and absolute wrath
and it was all
it was all fucking beautiful.

I was a writer
I wrote stories that were so extraordinary
they became ordinary
they were perfect reminders
of feelings understood
that they wept at ever having forgot
but they loved the pain
oh the exquisite pain
of my magic in bringing it back to them

I was a lover
of man
of animal
of plant
of space
I was open heart
bleeding connection
and gratitude
and joy
endless joy.
I was so big
I could not be contained
nor did I have to
because all was contained
in me

I was this. I was that. I was all of these things
and yet I never was any of it.
Because they were tricks of mind
dreams of imagination
in which i lived
and was so thoroughly
soaked
in satisfaction
of which I have none
And with this knowledge
this truth
I die
for never having lived
any of it
at all.

For in this truth of fantasy, I find my glory. I find my beauty.
But in that knowledge,
in that knowing,
of finding beauty only in fantasy-
that's my tragedy.