was i writing again?  no, not really.  i was scribbling illegible marks on paper and smoking too many cigarettes with canker sores on my lips as i gazed at the sky night after night.  i was contemplating freedom vs. slavery and the nature of reality as “stars” flashed and floated above me.  i was experiencing strange sensations that bordered on bizarre and i was worrying and anxious and pointless all at the same time.

but you didn’t ask about any of that.  perhaps i overshared.

i have a name; first, middle, and last.  i have a vessel they call body.  i am somewhat conscious and i’ve been told that i “exist” on a rotating sphere they refer to as “earth.”  when my covering breaks, the gushing wetness is called blood.  and i need the wetness to continue this thing called existing.

and i’m supposed to want this to continue.  that’s what they say.

that’s what they told me.

  1. My dear, there is more to life than existence. You are here for a reason, and there is purpose, and beauty, and compassion, and sharing.
    The bleakness doesn’t come from out there.
    When I was young, I had an image of being in an empty, black steel box. One day, I reached out a hand, and found that the surface in front of me wasn’t a steel wall but a curtain. I could step through into sunshine.

    • truth be told, it took me some moments to absorb the depth of your reply. i appreciate it more than i expect i’ll be able to express. you should know, however, that i’ve consumed your words and found them potentially extremely valuable. thank you for finding yourself here. now, excuse me while i ponder walls versus curtains.

i'd be thrilled to hear your true, uncensored thoughts. i'd also love to read your writing.