Language is like this cat house. There are too many holes through which real intent (and air and life and maybe even love if you will forgive a brief sentimentality) rush away. Which is the real Luco - in what ways am I more real than my reflection? Perhaps in its inconstantly my reflection is a truer representation of my life, my identity, my transitory nature.
And why do I even struggle to tell you this? Macbeth has already said it and with much more eloquence than I am capable, allow me to quote: "Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
Perhaps it is because like an impassioned actor I am bound to my calling that I must write and rewrite the truth we all already know but do not wish to know. That we all pretend life is anything other than this fills me with an ache to sit down at my computer and moronically hit the keyboard, hoping to convince you of what? Of what?
We are all absurd.