Is this the price I pay for sanity?
Losing everything that makes me who I am? Every bit of struggle I’ve overcome becomes useless, meaningless. Full of faults and cracks, pieces missing. Pieces I can’t reclaim through the wonders of modern science.
Who am I? What has my existence become, if for nothing else but to go through the motions with emotions?
Feelings -- fluid and transparent, like water, like glass.
But there’s nothing left but empty sadness.
Pieces of purity, lost, unclaimed
But when I try to hold them, they just pass through my fingers.
Can I sift through these pieces of thought? Through these broken shards of memory?
Is my life just one quilt block after another -- parts just stitched together to make something tangible?
But is being real...really worth it?
Is there nothing left of me but a forgotten waif -- lost, or listless?
Is she still in there somewhere?
Or was she too, consumed, by utter madness?
Who am I?
c. loonymadhatter79/ michael drake 2018





















