Ghosts.
What do I have to do to live my life? I feel so suffocated with this not knowing and being so unable to move in the sorts of movements I want to move in. Everyday I wake up on the same side of the bed, everyday the blinds is always big enough to give away light delivering them straight to my sleepy eyelids. I want to write. I want to be chained to a desk and write and when I am not chained to those things I want to be chained to the ground with my heels walking among people whose eyes I will never look into.
I don't want to know anyone because I don't want them to know that I don't know myself at all. It's a sad story, the one inside my head. While I am saying this there is a hand squishing my heart to the extent of it becoming a small glass of lemonade. Inside my head are ghost-white pages stacked, piling atop one after another on the floor of a ghost-white room. If there were ghosts inside this room they would be weeping, they wouldn't have the ability to even see each other because even ghosts are invisible to other ghosts. This is me even to myself.
But there are no ghosts in the ghost-white room inside my head.
(I am telling you this is sad, not sadness.)
I don't want to know anyone because I don't want them to know that I don't know myself at all. It's a sad story, the one inside my head. While I am saying this there is a hand squishing my heart to the extent of it becoming a small glass of lemonade. Inside my head are ghost-white pages stacked, piling atop one after another on the floor of a ghost-white room. If there were ghosts inside this room they would be weeping, they wouldn't have the ability to even see each other because even ghosts are invisible to other ghosts. This is me even to myself.
But there are no ghosts in the ghost-white room inside my head.
(I am telling you this is sad, not sadness.)