why am I in this body?

There is a part of me that wants to experience obliteration, that wants my physical form to burst into a million particles; to rejoin that which made me. As if, in an instant, I could be everything and nothing at the same time.

a dream

The cave. An echo, and then, silence. Not deafening, but a heavy consciousness that rings deep. An all-consuming whir of silence that builds its walls around my ears. Encasing them with the seductive promise of. Nothingness. Wet, damp, I sit alone in silence. Alone within the dark hollow. A gaping space whose presence I fill.

Nails

What controls the hands that write these words on this page? I am flesh and energy, some sort of abstract life force with a fleshy physicality that is visible to others like me. I am the warmth that leaves an imprint on this page - warmth that fades and will recede from memory. I am the dead cells that form the nails on my fingertips - why do they stay in that half-moon shape?

solitude

Is it so bad to enjoy solitude? Is one's own company so abhorrent that one must continuously seek the companionship of so many to bear with themselves? I enjoy solitude. That is not to say I do not enjoy the company of others, but when the company I am with is not in sync with who I feel I am, then it quickly begins to feel like a chore.

outbursts

When they happen I feel wretched. Out of character, somehow demeaned. As if my very soul has been breached and been made vulnerable. A mask of civil placidity has always seemed more appealing to me than expressing strong emotions. They are so very raw.

loneliness

Sometimes I think it is quite ironic to feel lonely. We are born alone into this world, we experience the world alone and we will die alone. We have been predestined to function in solitary confinement, and yet the feeling festers. It is all a big joke really.

new years

A new year brings new prospects. But it feels old and tired at the same time. The celebrations hearld in something new and yet it is a ritual that has been perfomed over and over to the point of futility. What is the point of embracing the new when it is so determined to be welcomed in through repetition?