I Have To Keep Breathing

I'm spending more and more time not writing what comes into my head. All the bizarre, sinister yet melancholic psychosis that I’m afraid to share with anyone. Not to anybody, and to a certain extent - not even with myself. Like all the nightmares you don't want to believe you had or were ever capable of having.

I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not... And i don't have to keep telling myself that right? A poignant rendition of a loveless life. Is it better when you stop asking or is it better that you still ask? Is it worse to be worried about these things all the time than it is to rush through feral thoughts without consideration?

I keep feeling the need to retract. To not go as far as I do. To be critical of the random excentricities of thought. To remember that normal people, whoever or whatever they are, don't do that. They don't go into places that scare themselves, they don't dwell around broken thoughts and try to piece them one by one... They don’t stop by graveyards in the midst of the night to find quietude.

Normal people don't feel themselves pressed against the countenance of now. The rush of personal history crushing them against the present moment. The overwhelming force of it all spreading them impossibly thin.

Normal people don't chill at the thought of opening up like a door and having something else step through and out into their lives. Into the space they occupied. However briefly. However badly. Something clear of purpose and place, perfect and righteous and free of all the tethers and chains that hold me down here in the dark.

Something I don't think I will like very much.

I guess normal people don't have to worry about becoming normal.