A fracture, not holy anymore.
I don’t recognise the person I see in the photographs, it’s like I’m looking at myself through the reflection in the window across the street. A distant stranger, a facade.
Thoughts drift in and out and I can’t distinguish between what’s real and what I’m imagining. It’s hard not knowing yourself and being unable to identify with who you are and what is going on in your life.
Worrying about the future when I can actually see one for myself seems appropriate but again I feel like the only one. I can’t talk to the people who love me the most and care for me because is it still just me? Am I the only one? Does anyone else think these thoughts? Does anyone else feel like me?
I mean, the rational part of my brain tells me that there are others but the little prick on my shoulder knows I’m isolated, the only inhabitant on the island of shame and infamy. A bleak landscape that I’ve painted for myself, like Edgar Freemantle painting a nightmare born out of wistlessness. A mental cripple in a world catered for able-minded apathy.
I feel like the eye of the storm causing destruction and misery wherever I go and self-esteem and confidence are remnants of a life long lost to the judge jury and executioner. Prison wouldn’t be better because I’m already there.
My head hurts, it’s loud in here at the moment and I can’t shut anything out. Thoughts are setting up busy highways, like the M25 in the middle of rush hour, everyone wants to get to where they’re heading but the sheer volume of traffic stops the system but it doesn’t really stop does it.
I don’t even know anymore but I’m really struggling and I can’t even tell anyone because who can I tell? Who’ll pick up the phone and let me say what’s on my mind without judging me? When I die, if there is a heaven and hell, I can only go to heaven because I’m living in hell already.