My dreams these days are nothing but shadows of the past that haunt me, or an image of how I would like to see myself in the future.
Images that I know will never happen. The fact I'll never achieve becoming the person I would like to be is the weapon my alter ego uses to gut me. She twists the knife and I bleed out in my sleep. All that is left is a hollow frame that carries me around, on auto pilot into the next day.
In the dusty shelves where my pride used to lay, I wrote my name. And my heart sinks into my stomach. My fists clench. And I start to be eaten by the floor, being absorbed, and I feel absolutely nothing. I'm dispensed into a black abyss, no sense of direction, no way of knowing which way the exit waits for me. I'm not sure if I'm alone or not and I'm not sure if that's a comforting fact or a terrifying one. So my defense is to feel nothing. I choose not to be vulnerable.
I am put in a familiar environment where my surroundings match the way I feel inside my chest. Empty, and alone and cold. So in a way, I am completely in my own element.
Nobody can hurt me, except for myself.
And that's the terrifying part.
