They live so quickly, myself not as fast.
They fasten no valve on emotion.
Nor am I able to either at times.
Nor do either of us know what we are.
The difference must be the sense we have
of ourselves as one of two kinds, subject
or object, the one acting out who they are,
the other not believing they’re acting at all.
One is our reality, the other our art.
One real, the other feeling as real to us as
there are people who cannot help but feel,
who are, in real life, as lifelike as we are.
I, too, have loosened the spigot on occasion,
vented the thing before it burst the pipes.