The archive of the forgotten

Atlas is no longer here

Sometimes life feels more like a dream than dreams do. And in my experience that has never been a good sign.

I look at the ceiling that I can hardly focus on as my body is giving up on itself. The smell from the kitchen makes me sick to my stomach although it's been a week since I have eaten anything substantial. The feeding tube in my nose itches as it reminds me how stupid I am. How excellently deranged, even apart from my real problems I cannot be normal. It feels like my mouth is wired shut and my words are no more. Only sounds coming from my mouth are desperations of understanding, cries of happiness, and delusions of normality.

It hurts me that I own nothing, I do not own my sanity, my own mind, my own body. I do not own control. I will never understand myself or my own mind. The gifted geniality in my mind is wasted as I waste away in pain, sadness and insanity. Even my tears are no longer my own. They are just for show, I no longer want to hurt. How can people see the use of somebody that does nothing but complicate the reality of his own life and others.

I shut my eyes and hear the scream in my head as my mouth stays tight lipped as ever. The worst is that no matter how many words exist in english, yiddish, italian or french there is nothing that explains the way I feel as I wish that my lips turn blue and my skin cold. I want to set my body on fire to feel the warmth and sensation of pain that is not produced by my own body, voluntary pain, instead of torture the world has put on my shoulders.
It doesn't suit you atlas, self pity. Even though you have so much of it. Take a deep breath and kill yourself. How cowardly are you? Afraid of the hell you claim not to believe in? Afraid to be like your father? Afraid that death hurts more than life? Afraid of everything but yourself? Paralyzed in ease? It is what it is? Than stand up and do something about it?

I shut my eyes and feel myself drifting into comfort as my head gets heavier and heavier.

I shoot up as it feels as if my hands are burning. The skin looks red and as the tears form in my eyes I slowly touch the tender skin. My fingers drag themselves through the flesh as it comes off. The putrid smell fascinated me as my paralysed face inspects the dark rotting flesh under the healthy skin that slowly peels back further and further. I can't help but smile at the image of a living skeleton I am. Or a surviving skeleton would maybe be a better word. I put my hands on my face as the once beautiful pale skin as a wedding dress in the night of the most love of your life. The bloody flesh I scoop out of my cheeks is minimal as sickness has already eaten my flesh long ago. It feels freeing that I finally look how my body has made me feel for years, the reality of the fight over storms and over nature. I am not supposed to be. I will never fully be.

I draw a sudden breath as my eyes open, the dreams making fun of my own idealisation of death. My mind, laughing at me, the world laughing at me, the room laughing at me. I feel the breath in my neck as the sounds get meaner and harsher. I lift my body and put my feet on the ground as I look down when I suddenly hear the death prayer.
I look up, the woman is sitting in the corner, her beautiful eyes focused on me, wishing for the cowardice or bravery of my death. Again, again, and again. I sigh and look down as she insist of the same hollow prayer in the same hollow voice I have heard for weeks, the voice I no longer recognise as the comfort it once had.
"Shut up." I say, my teeth clenched and my hands cleching onto the bedframe. She doesn't stop, she'll never stop. Get me a new mind, I don;t care how dumb or smart, I do not want to be myself anymore.
The prayer gets louder and louder, it's like a lecture, a motherly lecture of duty and religion.
"SHUT UP!" I yell as I throw the first thing I can find.

"Books are your friends atlas." Orion says with a smile. As the book falls on the ground.
"I know." I sob.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah totally fine! I am playing basketball with books who talk too much!" I sneer.
He sits down beside me and wraps his arm around you.
"Don't say it..."
"We love you." He says.
"That's the problem, if I would still be alone this would be so much easier."
"And be honest now Atlas, do you want that."
I bury my head in his shoulder and shake my head.
"I thought so." He says.