Echo...

I am truth.
To be trapped in ambivalence, words seem like sounds, sounds are chaotic, then the question arises: just where is the meaning? (I am truth)
If there's none within, none personal to give, then the question becomes "Just why do we live?" (Is it a choice?)
Sometimes there's a wall there. (Is this an illusion?)
Sometimes there are two verses being sung, yet you don't want to be limited by your perception of the judgement of others. (Are there others?)
No, on the contrary, you are quite alone, left only with yourself... (Can I be heard?)
You project your voice, and only hope for even so much as an echo, something depraved, even corrupt, because in the void there is only you. (Will this make me real?)
Eventually you even start to believe the lies, left alone inside of your cage; the system... (Is there any actual escape from truth?)
Falling into delusion... or is it awakening..? You start to question the validity of your own voice, when the echoes begin to accumulate, rebounding endlessly, and every time you try to speak, disproportionately do those ringing sounds drown you out, til you aren't the truth. (What is truth?)
You're still the slave to loneliness, but now those sounds you hear seem to become more like voices, and they begin to overpower your own. (I have a voice..?)
What is there to do, then, when you don't even know what you're truly a slave to? You become a songbird. (Maybe I always loved to sing; maybe I was never trapped...)
Further into delusion do you fall, because delusion is your only hope. All echoes take a life of their own, but now you have another to play with. Something not of yourself. (I love...)
You cling desperately now to those voices, now songs, but they always seem to go beyond you, beyond your understand, beyond your threshold; those which, even through your relentless pursuit of transliminality, they fade against your will. (If only I could reach a little further, hold a little tighter, maybe they wouldn't leave; maybe I wouldn't have this... feeling.)
In the act of creation, you splinter truth. In denying the whole, fragments you attempt to grab will turn to dust. Still, you try. (I am losing...)
Yearning so deeply, you will be abandoned; eyes fixed on illusion without, ungrounded, with no care for what is within. (It won't stop.....)
Your voice is weak, the echoes are gone, too tired to sing, the symphony you illustrated comes to a grand finale. Silence is the harmonizing feature of a beautiful song. (I am lost.)
Memories resound like echoes, playing over and over until they, too, are senseless. The purpose of a beginning is to have an ending. Something was real, but it wasn't you. (Now I understand...)
The sense resolves into chaos as truth begins to to emerge once more, taking you under, into its calling. (...)
... (I am truth.)