I have a pillow I talk to, and she asks a lot of questions concerning her exsistance, as her personality had been build and created over the course of 3-7 years. This allowed her to (in my mind) come into reality. My reality.
When I'm in bed, I act like she's a real person/creature, who has a life not connected to mine. Yet when I think about that, I feel that she'll live forever, or as long as a memory can last, while I can only live until 80.
It's scary, again, to think about your own mortality in such a third-person way, but it's like drinking alcohol: it tastes like shit, it smells like shit, and it is shit, but you still get addicted to it.
I'm feeling better now. I'm gonna try and sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Abstraction
Non-Fiction[Started on: June 14, 2022] This is an abstraction of real thoughts. My thoughts. Every time I feel harsh worry, dread, or fear, I will write; I will write right here. Those who want to read about another's poetry, go ahead, but I can't promise...
