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.