It’s the insanity of it all that gets me. There’s this vague idea of you that sticks with me. And I’m holding onto that. It’s nothing I can concretely get my fingers around, but it’s all I have left. Maybe I take life too seriously. It is only life, after all.
But, the insanity.
Fragments of reality pieced together in a way only I can comprehend. Sometimes I forget what’s actually real to everyone. But if it’s real to me, isn’t that enough?
Sometimes I think I made you up. That I dreamt you one night. You are only whiskey poured over my subconscious, seeping into my neurons while I sleep. The atoms that compose the fibers of my being respond to a ghost. A fleeting presentation of desire across the walls of my mind.
And all this time, I’ve been sleeping alone. You always leave in the morning because you were never there to begin with. But you must have been. My nostrils are still lined with your scent. The imprint of your body still remains in the sheets. I swear a forensics team would find your fingerprints all over me.
Frantic insanity.
It’s gnawing at parts of me that I didn’t know were there. Slowly and painfully, it’s peeling back the façade until my core is exposed. Maybe there is something buried in my heart worth dying for.
Yet here on the edge of this cliff, I feel alive. I can breathe up here. Was I dead before this moment? Hibernating under blankets of snow and isolation, when freedom was on the edge the entire time.
Up here is where we learn that it all means nothing in the end.
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