Notes on psychosis

I've always been alone in the only sense of the word I ever knew. Me and the voices and the visions. Alone without another body near me, I lie awake in bed, damned that if I fall backward to lay down, a monstrosity will appear looming over me. All the same damned that if I don't turn around while up that it may be behind me. But every time I turn around, there's always more room to turn.

I grew to love the fear.

But then was that fear?

I began to fear the love.

So. Was that love?

Addiction was the only reasonable bridge between the two. So, I built it up with everything I had. Until the hands of my mind ached from the labor, it wasn't a physical addiction, though it should have been. But a mental pathology tattooed upon my subconscious.

I can't even sing, yet I hear a melancholic, manic choir, all with my voice contorted into different ages and emotionalities. Did that mean something? Of course, it didn't. I laugh because I'm happy because I'm happy to escape—or at least try.

I was born into this world alone, yet I felt as if I'd never been born. I disrespect myself by calling myself hollow but aggrandize myself if I say I'm different. Logic made it more complex, and ignorance wasn't an option. When the game of twister is over, I'll fall back onto my bed, grateful that all it ever does is watch.