Poems of Mine

The Narrator

What a shame it is. . .
To be aware.
Not the awareness that everyone thinks they must surely have.
No.
I'm talking about the kind of awareness that leaves a person without an actual thought.
The kind that narrates the "thoughts" you think you have.
The kind of awareness that keeps you from actually feeling something. . .
Other than depression.
There goes that word again.
Depression.
I'm always asked things like "why are you sad?"
Why am I sad?
Other than the shit that's considered me, I'd say it's probably that narrator telling me that I am "sad" at this particular moment.
Telling me that this is what it feels like to be "sad".
To be depressed.
To be Aware.
How do you think it feels?
To think in this third person way
This schizophrenic way.
To think like me.
To constantly know what's going on.
To constantly be told what's going on.
That one night.
That one fucking night.
All I could think was "this is what it's like to be 'sad'. To actually be 'sad'".
Only I didn't even have the chance to actually feel that.
I was too busy telling myself what I felt, that I was unable to feel that way.
And don't get me wrong.
It's not that I was feeling happy.
I was feeling nothing.
Just a fucking void of nothingness.
My narrator suppresses those "feelings" that everyone else seems to have.
Oh and you want to know how I'm so seemingly "great" at everything?
That's because doing things, other than nothing, dims that narrator.
That is until those things become boring.
Then it's off to the next thing.
And then the next.
And suddenly the narrator comes back and tells me how I feel.
How I feel?
I'm feeling nothing.
Because you talk too damn loud.