I don't blame anyone for not understanding how it is to hurt with both hands, like a blown circuit. I worry that the genesis of my brain is disenchanted, uprooted from its stem, burnt at the stake. I feel like- I worry too that I feel like- my body is a lost continent; the evenings sit and become nights and become mornings without rest, just empty eyes. Am I rusting? Am I still here? Stitch me back to something. I hope this will be more probable in the next few weeks. Winter tends to the prayers of the lonely.
Sometimes I am sure I'm alive because someone else isn't. My life and heartbeat whisper obligations. I panic, I lose my lungs for a minute, breath pouring o ut of me, stale and hot like mercury from the remains of a broken thermometer.
I know I'm sick. I know I'm not myself. Does one depend on the other? I hope that soon I'll be able to look at my reflection. I wish I could feel it again- that glimmer of hope, even just a glance of that fool's paradise.
