I am in a box, and all I see are the illusions of reality floating around me, darting through me. All this, everything around me is bullshit, and only the phantoms are real ... phantoms of myself, of my past, and present ... my phantoms, my pain, my terror, my pissed-because-I-need-to-be phantoms. But that's bullshit as well; not even the phantoms are real. Nothing is. It all crumbles, completely. Everything is false, and nothing is true. But is that the way it is? Or is it the opposite? Is everything true, and we all just need to choose our truth? So, what is my truth? What is my reason, my need, my want? Do I have anything? Do I want it? Need it? My mind is so far gone, so drowned in self pity that I do not know what is up, down, sideways, backwards, and insideout.
So drowned in what am I, who am I, that I cannot see the answer, if there is one. Do I need to know? Do I care? Would I care if I found the answer? Would I even know it for the answer if it hit me with a ton of bricks? So, is that my truth? I think so, but how can not caring be an answer? A truth. Or is it not caring? Is it? Is it? Or is it, dont try to find the answer. Is that it? Is that simple answer the one I have been looking for, and avoiding because it's so simple? Ok, fine, Occam's Razor, right? I can accept that. But, how do I fix it? How do I make myself buy it? Wholecloth. How do I buy it? I have never felt this desolation before. This destruction of the spirit. Poverty, death, questioning who I am outwardly, while inside I cling to the tattered remains of who I once was. Those things I have been through. This is nothing like those times.
I feel as if I have walked into a graveyard, to lay to rest the phantoms of those parts of me that I know are dead. And on the toombstones next to the one I came for are the names of parts of mysef that I thought were still intact, but cannot put a name to. As if you have dealt with a death; the death of a beloved and have finally, after years of avoidence, come to lay that friend to rest in your own mind. And, next to that friend's grave are the graves of others, others beloved by you. People you have only just spoken to a moment ago. You find you have been speaking to thier remains, like a psyco in the nut house, talking to the tatters of a doll she thinks is her baby, dead the past 10 years, and yet she knows not that this is only a doll, a representation. And yet you know these friends, these parts of yourself, but cannot name them. Know them on sight but cannot put a name to the face. I know I am a living corpse of dead pieces of myself, puttering around in the rock garden trying to get the flowers to grow and not seeing the rocks. Watering them day in and day out and making excuses for them when they do not grow, do not change, constantly seeing the freshly turned earth, and bulbs, or seeds, but ignoring the rocks as if they were not there. Did not exist.
I refuse to do this. I cannot hurt like this.