Insanity is a padded room

People are fans of things they can’t see. Because it makes it easy for them to pretend things are there when it’s not and vice versa. It’s easier to have results in numbers on paper telling you you’re sick. Because then doctors can still figure out a way to sew you back up or sedate you.

But I’m sick with something I cannot see. I talk about scars my doctors cannot stitch up no matter how much they rummage through my sickly body, sometimes I’m not sure if I’m pretending to be fine or if it’s just another mood swing.

And I know I’m sick. I know because for years I have dreams of dying. Of being shot, of falling off buildings. I feel the impact of everything before I wake so for years I die, over and over again. I may have developed an immortality complex, who knows, where I’m convinced I’ll never die. To just step in front of a car or off the 5th storey of my flat, feel it, thinking I could and probably would wake up again.

I’m addicted to the strangest of things. Not cigarettes or alcohol but the sterile scent of hospital beds, general A and the beeping of my heart rate monitor. At my lowest I crave them so badly. To have no one talking, not even myself in my own head. To slip in and out of sleep for hours on end where time has no hold of me.

Wishing everytime to feel so eternally.


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