What are we?

The sleeping world, and the end of the thoughts. What are we? What am I? These words are paintings of thoughts, of just that, of just there, of voices inside of our heads. Two days, gone. Today, gone. Still, gone. Writing brings back the insanity that I wish I still suffered from. In the basement with  black and white tiles and baskets of mass, it wasn’t my house; I ended up there. Bus travel and people saying I can’t believe she did that. Music and people walking, looking at the ground, me. Drinks and the river and people asking me what’s up. Nothing. Nothing, walking, just walking; lost and I’m worried about those that can’t accept the voices in their head. Those, you, maybe, that pretend to understand what this life is. The other day, words, cats, mirrors, don’t look at yourself, at your face right now, its gross, it’s human, all too human. Brittle hair in knots, crickets hiss as frogs grow in the buckets under the hose. Time, time, gone. Cats leaning under pipes, another one stretches down the steps. I ask it what it’s doing, nobody listens to me, and I no longer want them to. I’ve seen inside of our mind. I’ve destroyed my mind. I, no, nothing, know, I, not, nothing, or; cardboard sheets of sticky bug paper. This is the forgiveness that you may someday ask for, and it’s pointless. Just accept, that our society makes no sense, and maybe, maybe then, you can be what you are, a human. I forget. Today. Gone. Forgot. In my head. What are we?

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