The Doors of Deception

I try to be as brutally honest  to myself as I possibly can
I find it hard to trust my senses most of the time,
Since they seem to deceive me in every turn.
The sensation of existence, such brilliance inhaled with every breath.
In every breath, the promise to let go, with every inhale
The promise to exhale.
The rhythm of life, periodic system of repetition,
Beginnings and ends. All entwined in the process of maintaining life.
And with life, the conscious act to prove your senses either right
or wrong.
To find a conclusion of any sort.
To find peace, although you know there is no such thing
Among the living.
We are disturbed, out of balance, chaotic.
We keep swimming against the tides.
That is our true nature. To fight against the imminent.
Until we are proved wrong.
And even after that.
We are all just expressing our innermost selves,
When we refuse to understand the end,
When we refuse to see the death.
When we turn our senses elsewhere
When we could truly have a chance to learn
How they actually work.
We are afraid of truths. Any sort of truths, especially those
that are true. Because there is also false truths
The social kind of truths.
The kind of truths we need to accept to become accepted in return.
And those are the truths we choose
Instead of those we could find within us.
Other worlds, other words, other thoughts, other oblivions.
We let them remain unfound.
We let Them fill our heads with
These thoughts, These words, These needs, These urges
I need. I want. I need. I want.
Our senses do nothing but amplify these thoughts,
Since they we're designed particularly to surpass our nerve-ends
Designed to reach and pass the limits of our perception
To unlock, to fling open, and to enter
From these Doors of Deception.