Sometimes I worry I am actually dipping into psychotic territory. That my brain is actually crumbling.
The words are melting. The warm device screen melting them like chocolate in your pocket on a summer day.
They’re sliding now, down the page into a soup of fragmented thoughts.
But it’s not soup. How can it be? Soup is comforting. This is a hornets nest – constantly buzzing with pieces unfinished that I can’t connect but are connected. Threads tangled – like my hair – that one time I wouldn’t let anyone touch it when my mom went away. Tangled mess – don’t touch me.
I hate being touched. I want to be touched. Why am I floating away? It still hurts so much but I can’t help but keep going.
I’m scared that my words won’t make sense anymore. I’m crying inside but unfeeling outside. It’s okay right? If I go on a journey but never return? I’m afraid I can’t come back. I’ll be okay right? Do you think my soul is sick?
I shouldn’t be here. But I don’t want to be anywhere. I need you to listen. But there’s only silence. Why won’t thoughts string into order like always?
Maybe there are no more thoughts to be rendered. No story to left to be told. What’s left is empty shell – cracked and eroding in the wind.