You feel it coming slowly. Very slowly. It creeps up. When anything and everything anyone says ticks you off. When words begin to irritate for no reason. Every month it happens. The persistent irritation is different. This melancholic hatred is panoptic. It’s not tunnel visioned. It’s not severe. It is simply existing. But it will flow like a waterfall heading down that slope with all that built up kinetic energy that it crashes down with a whirl of white that bathes it you in a wondrous terror. Divine love, agape love. The need to feel something overwhelms the need to survive. It goes above and beyond the present choking reality that expects you to tell and do, to think and act, to be and keep being. The walls are no longer walls. They have turned into soft tissue that lines my memories inside my pulpy skull. I can no longer differentiate between me and that. I have let myself dissolve into a basic solution that covers me inside out.

The more I draw from my reservoir of memories and feelings the more rattled I become. No, those aren’t my bones. Those are the bones I collected over the years. I couldn’t throw them away. I’ve kept them safe in that black box that no one is allowed to look into. But hey! You’re reading this now. Are you that lucky soul who will be the last person I talk to before I leave this wretched earth? I don’t know. Neither do you. The black box which isn’t really black. If I remember it was purple, then beige, then some shade of blue, then white – pure, innocent white, then crimson, then black – the omniscient black. Therefore, this isn’t a black box. It’s been painted over and over and it’s just a grimy old disgusting thing. But, the box isn’t the point here. I was talking about the reservoir. The more I dip myself into it the more fucked up I feel. I can see the mistakes again. The lost opportunities. Unsaid words. Unwritten letters. Jealousy. Hurt. Longing. There are tears in my eyes already. What can I do?

I hate the word I now. Everything begins with an I. Eliminate the I and the world is a better place. There goes ego and self pompousness. There goes me, I and mine. It’s you that we need. Well, who am I anyway.  

Coincidence

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