Schizoid

Fate is random. How do I know?
Living my life, illusion by illusion,
barring the gates to my secrets.
My reality, shaped into form.

Once, I was living.
Read, thought, ate.
Slept. And dreamed.
His dreadful, stabbing eyes
all around me.
How I long for sleep!

Enveloped by my delusions,
I started running.
But he saw me.

“Nothing is random.
It leads us through, up,
ahead, above, searing our
minds with the acid truth:
We are not eternal.”
But nor are we temporary.

They swept.
Fast through the body they dug,
tunnelling deeper as they went.
They could not find me.
I dwell deep inside, hiding,
waiting for what is to come.
You'll weep your bitter tears.
But how could I foresee?

“What you see is real.
That which is real, is eternal.
Reality is no coincidence.”

My face, marred by worry.
His voice in my head.
I didn’t know life could make sense.
But I’m gazing into eternity,
and suddenly see reason –
in the blackness of void.

Fate IS random. I know.
If what I see is real, tell me:
Why am I blind?