The pathological cousin and the evil twin
Of confirmation bias took itself out camping.
"I was suffering from an excess of stories,"
One hallucinatory voice said to the other.
The other replied, "Take advantage of what
You can. It's the only way to survive." Then
They both laughed and lapsed into one
Again. Certainty and narrative bred this
Uncomfortably unified duality, but certainty,
Although the more apparent malady, only
Rose its kraken head out of the waves
Thanks to the self creation of narrative.
Without the rising black stones of stories
Steaming out of the water, no solid ground,
No island of monstrous certainty could exist,
And when I picture myself I'm mostly air.
Who said that? No one here. The archer
In blue dress and blonde braid aimed
At the narrow target. There was a world
Of mythology lit up in that sunny green pose,
But the moment itself was only a diversion,
And the flown arrow split and echoed away.
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