There’s something harsh about these lines, jagged and winding across the page with their stuttering from the ballpoint. It never bleeds the way it should, but I seem to be balancing that out myself just fine. White fur and platonic plastic, it’s a breath away from the soul I’d inhale deeply, if I could only touch it. The streetlights are ghosts, burnt orange and then suddenly,violently violet. Just another disappearing act … simply silhouettes in lieu of my previous brain damage. All seven of those royal ghosts surround me, breathing their hypocrisy in my face like stale cigarette smoke from a cardiac surgeon. We’re all capable of being defined as this, hollow and frail to the crushing weights of moral obligation, as helpless victims in our own cycles of self-defeat. The intentions to light the way and warm ourselves underneath our skin suddenly vanish and dwindle into shades of violence and hatred, a recipe for realization. I’ve been here before, before this sea of loneliness and mortality, faced with the tidal wave of my own hallucinations, running for my own pathetic life. As the sand prisms glittered like the asphalt, and the ocean drew back into a foreboding line of rushing black tar, I clung to the only thing I knew was real, myself. Embraced by the textures of my body, I examined the feeling of physical life. Drained of destiny, I clutch to the earth, tightly wound to the footsteps of generations before me. As the waves grew louder and closer, a laugh woke me, and I startled in its wake. Before me was the ghost I’d known so well, the pale-skinned life form with black eyes and chapped lips. Sanguine liquid poured from his lips, as his teeth fell into the porcelain beneath him. I spun backward, facing yet another reflection. His smile shone wildly, a grin of pure vindication. It was simply another amusement to the apparition, as his feelings never stretched past the surface of anything, incapable of depth like the black eyes of his mirror. I reached toward the empty eyes, desperately grasping for anything left inside, and I felt the blood pour from my pupils into my collarbones. Awake. A thin veil of navy stretched over me, the reenactment of a crime scene, as usual, suffocating in silence. Just like drowning in my own dreams.
Surrealist account of the self being split and torn into two pieces.