I always feel as though I’m losing myself.
Scratch that, I always feel as though I’ve lost myself.
It’s the sensation of knowing that you’ve forgotten something not only important, but cherished, like the incantation that will bring your childhood back, or the phrase of notes that will open the morning up like a doorway and let you walk through, step from now into your nicest memories.
It’s like the air was cleaner and more invigorating in the past, like realizing that it’s been years since you really breathed and that’s a damn shame because you thought breathing a very pleasant, rewarding thing to do.
It’s like standing outside a wall forever pretending it to be a door that will open to you shortly.
It is a kind of cynicism and disdain. It begins somewhere behind the corneas of your eyes as you walk along the sidewalk, step, step, and spreads until you don’t believe a thing that you see, hear, taste, touch, or smell, in particular if it’s someone who’s supposed to be on your side, because you know that traitors are only really bothersome if they’re betraying you.
On a grey sidewalk on a grey day in a grey snowstorm in a grey overcoat I was born again and I haven’t touched the dreams since. They are poison, and their only antidote is a cigar and a hard drink, taken daily, for the rest of your life.
“We’ll get you. We’ll get you yet,” you can hear something under the hum of the present say, and you know that not only has it come to get you, but that it already got you long ago and now it’s just playing, planting suggestions to give you pause, to make you wonder if you really are still free for just long enough to suffer when you realize that you aren’t and never were in the first place.