This Is Not A Substance, This Is The Effects of Insomnia.
I am, unbearably, unexplainably, surrealistically, insane.
Nothing is making sense right now, but the ironic thing is that it's only because things are starting to make sense. But I'm cracking under the attacks of insanity that have been plaguing me for the last couple days. Everything that I don't want to think about has been coming into sharp focus like a camera zooming in on the wrong thing. Everything is too quiet. When it gets this quiet I can start to hear my mind scream, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"
I am a bug. But I'm not. I have found my self in such a place that I'm doing nothing but floating in and out of twisted lunacies that only a deranged thing like my mind could produce or understand. Things that seemed like huge, ominous problems hours ago are now simply trivial little matters that zoom around and bounce of the walls of my brain like flies that no one really cares about enough to swat. I have no problems. The only problem is that I seem to be living in an entireley different existance than every one else. Perhaps I am going crazy. That would be a logical answer. Logic, however, seeems to get you no where in my little realm of thinking.
QUESTIONS! SO MANY QUESTIONS!
The moon is pouring through my blinds, painting little stripes on my hands. The rain is coming and it's so quiet. SO QUIET! Why are these people sleeping when there are so many things that make no sense? I want to run outside in the rain and scream. "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?" I ask. "DO YOU EVEN EXIST?"
Voices outside my house. It gives me the chills. To know that there is simple existance with no questions walking past my doors. I don't know those people. I probably will not, ever. They could be dead now. I wouldn't know even if their little dead faces were pressed up against my window staring at me with blank eyes, because I'm not looking.
I am a bug. but I'm not. What am I? I think I used to know.
It's to quiet. I feel as if I am in a giant chess game and I have now idea what peice I am.
Insomnia. So beautifully efficent in creating insanity. The night is cold and cruel and beautiful. I want to drink it, to drink this blackness surrounding me and taste it's richness. Perhaps it will give me answers. But I will not, not tonight because there is still more to do here on this little flat planet with the skies so big. This place is so massive but I still don't know if it's only my imagination. Maybe someday, as I lie here staring upwards, I will no longer be a feather, stuck to this heavy little place. Maybe I will fall effortlessly into the sky and past the heavens, and fall so gently, like the feather, past the rims of existance its self where I will see the answers from far away and smile. I will float past night and day and feel the night flow under my fingers.
I am a bug.
Because I don't know what I am.
Nothing is making sense right now, but the ironic thing is that it's only because things are starting to make sense. But I'm cracking under the attacks of insanity that have been plaguing me for the last couple days. Everything that I don't want to think about has been coming into sharp focus like a camera zooming in on the wrong thing. Everything is too quiet. When it gets this quiet I can start to hear my mind scream, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"
I am a bug. But I'm not. I have found my self in such a place that I'm doing nothing but floating in and out of twisted lunacies that only a deranged thing like my mind could produce or understand. Things that seemed like huge, ominous problems hours ago are now simply trivial little matters that zoom around and bounce of the walls of my brain like flies that no one really cares about enough to swat. I have no problems. The only problem is that I seem to be living in an entireley different existance than every one else. Perhaps I am going crazy. That would be a logical answer. Logic, however, seeems to get you no where in my little realm of thinking.
QUESTIONS! SO MANY QUESTIONS!
The moon is pouring through my blinds, painting little stripes on my hands. The rain is coming and it's so quiet. SO QUIET! Why are these people sleeping when there are so many things that make no sense? I want to run outside in the rain and scream. "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?" I ask. "DO YOU EVEN EXIST?"
Voices outside my house. It gives me the chills. To know that there is simple existance with no questions walking past my doors. I don't know those people. I probably will not, ever. They could be dead now. I wouldn't know even if their little dead faces were pressed up against my window staring at me with blank eyes, because I'm not looking.
I am a bug. but I'm not. What am I? I think I used to know.
It's to quiet. I feel as if I am in a giant chess game and I have now idea what peice I am.
Insomnia. So beautifully efficent in creating insanity. The night is cold and cruel and beautiful. I want to drink it, to drink this blackness surrounding me and taste it's richness. Perhaps it will give me answers. But I will not, not tonight because there is still more to do here on this little flat planet with the skies so big. This place is so massive but I still don't know if it's only my imagination. Maybe someday, as I lie here staring upwards, I will no longer be a feather, stuck to this heavy little place. Maybe I will fall effortlessly into the sky and past the heavens, and fall so gently, like the feather, past the rims of existance its self where I will see the answers from far away and smile. I will float past night and day and feel the night flow under my fingers.
I am a bug.
Because I don't know what I am.
posted by Solovino at
12:44 AM
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