I've Lost It

I seem to have lost it. Days wasted sleeping, and nights wasted awake. Always wondering, just what will come next, what will be the next big mistake that I make, the next big crash I'll fall into. I've got a constant feeling of someone watching over my shoulder, like someone is always watching what I do, but doesn't want to say anything. I know there's nobody there, but after years of always having someone there, it only could be that there would be somebody there when there isn't.

There's always somebody there when I make a mistake. There's always someone to critisize, or dramatize, or fuckerize, whatever. I've never had the privelage of fucking up and nobody knowing about it. It's always been a public affair, with everyone on the block gossiping over the phone. No trust. No trust.

Talking to people doesn't seem to help. I might as well be talking to a wall or a heap of dust. Change the conversation wall, change it before you figure it out. Dust is as dust does, or does not. I feel like dust. I just lie around all day, pondering where I'll be blown to next before somebody decides I'm a mess that needs to be cleaned up. And then they'll be forced to decide which clichéd tool from their arsenal they'll have to use. The guilty brush, perhaps? The motivational vacuum? The cleansing spray of spittle as I'm lectured to by a dipshit again?

Alone. I've always known what it meant. I was raised to spite it, and yet at the same time, I was never allowed to be anything more than. I do everything myself. I don't ask for help. Help means debt, and when everyone's calling in, it's something I can't afford to have. Fuck what you all say. How do you know you're telling the truth when you aren't even sure yourself? How can you have so much faith in what people say when they don't mean a word of it? How can you build castles of trust on untested soil, and rely on courage that is, at best, a farce?

Like a dream. I dream of flying, and of beautiful places away from the cities, away from the people. Where friends remember my name, and what I look like. Where I remember what I look like, and I don't frighten myself by looking in the mirror and see a new stranger every day. Where there is beauty in everything, and the only fiction is yet more beauty, printed out on sheets and bound into books of fancy and legend. I dream of flying, and yet... I also dream of falling.

Falling in love. Falling asleep. Falling from high places. It's all the same feeling now. I can't remember what it was like. I can't comprehend the feeling anymore, it's so alien. I feel as though I am half the person I was, and twice the fool. I should have moved on, but I became so hung up on the thought: "Moving on to what? What more could there possibly be?"

More dust and lies. More trouble to sift through to find the dreams I used to chase. More dawns to end the dusks, and more days to end the nights.

Maybe.