The Second Time

36

I scare myself.

I need chaos to function. My thoughts are tornadic. I am in a constant state of self-doubt and irritation, an anger that seems to be both cyclical and eternal. I do not understand.

I am a living, breathing Sisyphus, without the satisfaction of having reached the ending of no end. I am scared of myself and scared of everything else. I am small and alone in a monstrous world, and I am not different or honest or genuine or good. None of us are. I scare myself.

Are we all tricks of the light? Are we all mirages, fuzzy pictures of what we'd like to see but never will? Is every selfless act, every good deed, every bit of love expressed just the opposite? Is anything what we think it is?

I do not know who I am. I scare myself. I may never know who I am. All that I know is the heart that is in my throat and the bundled nerves that twist in my gut. I am caught in a torrent of mist and smoke and fake — and I do not know if this means that I am apart from it, or that I am a part of it. Every thought of mine is a paradox, and every action of mine is unreality.

Panic is the only reality. It scares me.