Impromptu

In sobriety caged -
let free by damage,
this life, this life, this
echoing sustenance that reverberates in dreams
is not interpreted by the sane, the unaffected,
only retold.

Such a lie. Do you also keep lies in a jar,
pickled? They change, you know.
You may even forget where they came from,
they may even change what you are.

Light a cigarette and think of death.
Sleep and dream of waste.
Wake up and forget that you are alive.
The truth unpickled
may expire.

He takes a look at the above, thinking "where did that just come from?"  He is uncertain, thoughts revolving. "What's for dinner. What's that smell. I should be doing something else. I should be someone else, somewhere else. I wonder if I could be Elvis (?)." Suddenly noticing his own breathing, it becomes hard for him, a conscious act that shouldn't be - just like it is for you now. That is how easily we distract ourselves.

Where is the framework here?
Is this about anything?
Does it need to be?
Everyone searches for specific meaning, but in spite of what I dream up, you still make your own, pickle it, and pass it on. One day, it returns to me, unrecognizable,
echoing,
sustaining.

Do I interpret it?
And is this the result?