It's a simple piece of paper. The handwriting is erratic and unsteady, ebbing from almost perfect to near scribbling veering from catatonic to mania.
Crazy people write. I think I'm starting to fit in. Every time I speak, the words just escape like bubbles from milk spilling and ivy leaves ripping away at temple walls. It makes no sense to me. It's like I can watch my words and they are separate from me. That doesn't make much sense at all. They're my words and not my words. I feel as if I've split in two. And neither of me likes the other, nor do we like me very much at all.
I wish to fall to the bottom of an ocean, where I will find myself once more.
I smell the chill of ether anesthetics, and it feels like the burning oil of your stomach after something awful's happened. It's very beautiful in all of its sharpness, but it repels you because it's not normal. It's poison and numbness. But it's a peace I'd never really known before. Perhaps I have hopefully died. Only do I exist sealed away in a memory, sealed in imagination. What a cruel joke.
I am falsehood and a lie, pretending to be worth something. I envy those with meaning. I lift my head and see nothing. I am blind, but my eyes work in the physical sense. Nonsense. Can that be so? For so many write of what we see, but it feels meaningless. I am unmoved. They could all die and I would wordlessly watch them fall. There's nothing. I have no great struggle, no great sorrow or adversity. Why should I suffer? It makes no sense. Therefore, I wish to end this senseless stupidity and angst. It is logic that makes sense to me and baffles me at once. I don't, can't remember. Who was here all along? I can't understand any of this, but I believe it and do not.
Mirrors are regarded as portals into the soul. But when I look, I see only someone I'd like to take by the throat. I'd hold her down until her eyes turned towards heaven. There would be a twitch and nothing. Mocking me silently. I tried, Lords how I tried. But when I pulled my hand back, there was only blood. She won. It seemed so unfair. At this time, I wish for a beak that I might tear myself apart in hope of - in hope of what? What is it I want? What is I? Shouldn't I be a who? That idea seems so wrong now. I knew an answer to that question once. I knew that such senseless acts of self violence were selfish once, stupid. But now they seem so correct. Perhaps I deserve it.
Everything goes in circles. I am forever turning now, a serpent latched onto her own tail. There is nothing to say that I have not, nothing to write that is not another ribbon tied onto another in a never ending stream of babble. I can't write much more because it feels like the more I think and remember, the more I am lost.
I wish to sleep now. Sleep forever.
Goodbye to whom? Why, goodbye to me!