waking is sleeping interrupted

waking is sleeping interrupted. I emerge a yellowed copy of myself, Xeroxed once or a million times too many. the lines on my face are the cracks in my self identity, there is no here but the opening of the fissures of the mind into depths I cant fathom or recall but constantly am slipping down the slopes into. I don't advocate the slippage or even rationalize its source, but I accept its effects and final resolution with a kind of inward peace that everything is inevitable. I wont survive, there will not be a tomathon to save me or an outpouring of denial from my well wishers and fans. the life I am living is just a copy of a copy of a copy that has been handed down over and over and in every iteration, I am the protagonist and the antagonist, I defeat myself over and over and over, but with more flair and subtlety I hope, each time. yet the chase is no chase at all but a submission to the stark fact that there is no field or separation between my selves and I exist simultaneously as each and everyone in my delusion. the thought that there is a not me or a me that is different somehow in the source of its function has all but disappeared. everyone I meet has the dull look of apprehension or the bright glance of prevarication as the mendacity of language is engaged to elicit a response. though what difference anything said could make is pure fantasy. the truth is all I am is lost in a field of activity and reaction, and as these quiesce  the locus of interpolation becomes broader not more defined. the center becomes the whole enchilada and cannot hold because there are no edges and the fingers disappear into the expanding ball of being that spreads like unstoppable goo through everything. I become the goo and the goo goes everywhere, suddenly in everything and dissolving all boundaries into one mass of proto creation, where the creation becomes the undoing of everything even as the chair I inhabit flows through my body and the floor wraps up the walls and meets in the center of my head like a balloon blown bigger than the room can hold. the walls become the skin and then the air beyond the inside that has no stopping point but just fills the horizon and empties every shape into its expanding donut of uncooked dough burbling vastly and forever through everything. what awaits the watcher, at the end of watching. the last record shows, the viewer becomes the viewed and the feedback swallows the sucking sound until only the vibration remains.