he knelt on the floor, hands clasped upon his lap as if to meditate. the dull pain shot through his knees and ankles to ensure a distracted mind. another habit he glamorized and failed at, meditation was- for him- something poetic and essential. yet, whatever about it was essential, was also ineffective. he would sit and fidget, unable to quiet the world, let alone a restless mind. he was lazy, plagued by procrastination and, without someone to guide him, hopelessly lost. his skills drifted between an uncanny knack for digesting complex ideas, contrasted with a similarity puzzling inability to act on them. life, not unlike this meditation was a rumination on how to appear as his own ideal, without actually accomplishing much in the way of action. he was brilliant and fraudulent simultaneously. often he pointed the incoherence of his life across at others, imagining that they were incapable of understanding. he had a delusion not of grandeur but of himself, he hid from the things that should have been projected, hid from them in order to protect his charade. by now he had begun to focus on his breath, yet between the slow rising and falling of his chest, frequencies flittered across his consciousness. nervousness that others may see the truth that he knew himself, the reality he tried so diligently to hide.