Prose

Which one inside me will I tear apart first?

Was being possessed my poor mental health earlier? A new day, a new question. Should I always be the one who hurts and separates from the world every time an alarm goes off because the emotions are released from the mental institution of my body? I realized the demons are guilty, the shame they brought upon a lost soul like mine. That entire picture is now called chemical imbalance. It isn’t some philosophy, to be honest. It was enough to let them out so that they can chew up every thought that seemed somewhat rational to me. That’s like a veil of red mist wrapping around me, a transformational possession by another me, just when I forget that there’s another me. Only to wake up from the oblivion into the demise of my soul and the character I’ve built up not long after the initial electroshock on the right ventricle. I can’t see the turbulence created in my awakening, because I don’t wake up alone. There’s always someone else inside me, there’re always more of them and a less of them inside one body. There’s a neurotic, distant memory that I’m not myself, in partial amnesia. I’m feeling angry because my thinking is dividing into unsettled and calm, obstinate and balanced. The mind doesn’t engage, but the body is working against me. It’s not okay, I know, but that moment of lost control, it’s like a weird compulsion in me, my ecstasy. But then I fall from the metaphorical ceiling to the floor, returning from ecstasy in myself to the hurting another me. That fall is hard, wakes me up, into emotional destruction, collateral damage, disbelief of those who confronted me and put shrapnel on my tongue, waiting to react. They didn’t know I already had someone in me who would do it for me. There are times when my psychosis gets the best out of me. Maybe it’s all those features in front of the mirror when I scatter dirt and insult every reflection of myself, even the unsuspecting shadow that intentionally takes my form and stabs me with precise, surgical moves, staring at the clock to make sure everything is accurate and flawless. It’s known that I can drift away and go crazy. Through destructiveness, I find the answers to reality and that I can be the worst, but what’s worse than that is- I confess. I love how I feel when I allow another me to cut me off from the world and destroy me until I’m relieved of pressure. In the meantime, I’m not looking at people beside me. If they knew how many blades pass through me a day, they wouldn’t have thought that they’re bleeding beside me the whole time. The veil of red mist begins to unravel as I overreact, overdosing myself, screaming and cursing those around me, as if the monster had just come to life. Ideas move through my mind, they satisfy me. Which one inside me will I tear apart first? Who will I leave to watch me while I’m transforming into myself? Which one? Who’s next? Those are thoughts I can’t say out loud, but they satisfy me. The scenario is unfolding like in the movies, and my imagination has never been sharper. It confronts the present and the past, and I demonly remove it from myself, and all these ideas of fear and horror, a faceless nightmare. Then I hide a mentally unstable personality in myself. It can be scary, but I love this place again. The mist goes down, the senses sharpen, the cries are more intense, but I calm them down. I collect demons and bring them back where they belong, in the mental institution of my body. They were angry long enough. There’s no place like home. New padlock, new chains, and old sign: “This room is no longer for rent. Sold.

Leave a Reply