Half an hour of discomfort, dysphoria, and discontent bathed in neon noise and electrohorror melodies.
All of my flaws have been eating away and this space has become a cavity. In my dreams I feel like someone else, and I start to feel like myself. Sometimes I feel like if there are other places, other versions of me, then the way I feel is who all of those others are, and it’s this that is the aberration. This is the anomaly. And it feels like, sometimes, those other versions, god, they get so close to me, sheets of paper stacked together, books in rows beside one another, and when we’re close enough together, and we’re held up to the light, we can see each other – we can feel each other, captured in transparency. When we’re covered in water, and we start to drown, all of our ink does bleed in together, forming a perfect, distorted whole. And when I see those others versions, I think – there I am. That’s really me. I am not this mistaken thing. And then it happens again, and I feel it inside of me, and I can feel you in my veins, and I can taste it in my mouth, and I can hear it in my head, like a swarm of something, or like a carwreck, and there’s no time for making sense, there’s no time for understanding, because there’s nothing left to understand. This is always here with me. This is always here.
All things by crimesididntcommit