Life is a big distraction!

The cold metal finger of the mental,
Digs into the surface of the conscious;
Gets in touch with the untouchable.
Untouchable, because it's non-existent.
Apparently, of course.
Were they flying around the head?
Was I looking out?
Or did they crop up in the brain-bed itself?
Was I looking within?
But, firstly, find me the Line Of Control,
Within which, all of it is me.
Outside which, the world is physical or metaphysical;
That's none of my business.
But definitions are, definitely.
It's not even a conflict.
Not even the phenomenon of fluctuation,
That I used to talk about;
Once upon a depressed day.
It's far beyond the regular.
A necessity that I weave.
And then tear apart.
And then, weave again,
To my great discomfort.
Unto unknown intentions.