Reality is Fiction is Reality.

(am i awake?)
I've grown tired of crying in bank parking lots
over assumed promises
of what's to come
in an attempt to become more real
by becoming fictional
I sporadically chase a sunset,
(orangepinkwhitebluered)
to an appropriate soundtrack
at a proper volume.
I watch it go out of sight,
never finding a cinematic hill
to stand introspectively and gaze upon
instead,
blank, shapeless clouds take up the sky
as I drive through a backwoods of sorts
(still an appropriate soundtrack)
I attempt now to get lost,
an effort in which I'll try to be found
but instead,
I end up exactly where I know.
I can't get lost,
I know exactly where I am,
because I am real,
not fiction.
I walk up a familiar field,
one where I was once fictional,
where my scripted me found the answer,
I still see a hint of the sunset,
being over powered by the faceless clouds
I walk across muddy waters
only to look back
at sedans and power lines.
I run up a typewritten moss covered rock,
only to fall and rip my jacket,
my real jacket.
I climb a tree, only to see nothing
worth taking a picture of.
I lust to be fiction.
I lust to have man made situations of brokenness
and self discovery.
They all tell me
"You just want your life to be a movie"
So I meet my standard
with these forced situations,
and I gain nothing
but a ripped jacket.
I am sick of an implied want for silence,
through static filled reception.
When will my character be spoken to?
I have no addictions,
but I have the consequences.
I have perfectly constructed scenes,
but life interrupts the necessary clarity,
the film is up,
but my camera still rolls,
in hopes for a resolution,
that has yet to be seen.