You Only Fake Keeping It Real
What do you know about anything, honestly? Are you even honest enough to admit that you’re honest? Keeping it real as one would say? Would your words not stumble stupendously as you navigate the towering hurdles of the complexities of language to communicate the idea that you are as sincere as they come?
Let me tell you something. You are fake. Everything you do: fake. Everything you are: fake. You don’t keep it real. You’re a mockery of the real universe, and life is just the real universe making a mockery of you. Yet this bold truth is what astounds folks like you, common swathes of mediocre microcosmic senescent lifeforms of questionable sentience, and those around you, because this truth is real, and the fact you fail to come to grips is how the universe mocks your mortal presence. Let the heavens cascade holy huffs of laughter upon you heathens.
Truly, I am but an honest being of sincere stature.
I can never be “fake,” for I am very real. Socrates would say, “I know that I know nothing,” and I say to him, “I know nothing too; it is everyone around me.” Would he agree with me? No, he wouldn’t, because he is dead of his own volition. Of course, I do know “nothing,” because I know what “nothing” is. It is the absence of everything, therefore when I say that I know that I know nothing, it’s not paradoxical but rather it’s the honest truth. The unwise misattributes my honest confession of genuine knowledge to be arrogance, but they just simply possess pure envy towards the intellectually sound.
In the face of it all, my precarious and sharpened mind, when it comes to facing fakeness such as yours and your associates face-to-face, is like Antigone, though not the Greek heroine however, but rather my mind is anti-gone, unlike you, who is never here because you have been removed from relevancy. Indeed, irrelevancy identifies you well. My present’s always defined by my constant presence. What a tragedy! May you rest in eternal peace, Antigone. That is an example of what failure to keep it real does. I weep everyday for I am the only real one I know.
Allow me to illustrate something so profound.
My hideously obscene timepiece tells me it’s time you people realize the fakeness that envelopes your existence.
When you lay on your sunken bed, the weight of your lies crushes you from above. The man down the street in his church will tell you this is divine retribution for your sins. Indeed, fakeness ought to be a cardinal sin, but he is wrong, as are you. No, what this is, this massive mound of mountainous truth, is your conscience realizing how fake your attempts to keep it real are. You know you’re lying while you utter the syllabic adjoining of noise you call “words” from your cacophonic voice.
What is it really? This is just gravity. Did you seriously think I would write this off as some mystical, outer-dimensional work of some being in the sky? Ha! That’s where you are wrong again. With this, I rest my case to its humble demise, much like Plato’s Apology.
