Homeless
Another day another existential crisis...
I’m feeling like an airplane that is coming apart at the rivets. My insides are swirling in a violent rage and my soul is struggling to contain the chaos.
I’m two days in on a THC fast and my mind doesn’t feel much different except for the lack of cloudy numbness that keeps these thoughts and feelings under control. The herbal remedy provides a release of pressure from behind my right eye and a dulled sense of being.
There’s a chilled, shivering tension in the middle of my back and the outside of my thighs. It cripples me with an overwhelming lack of control. I cannot contain. I am bursting.
I do not feel like I belong here. I do not feel like I am part of this world. I am outside staring in through a window at a world that neither knows I exist nor wants me here. I feel unwelcome, unwanted, and unworthy of being.
When I hear about someone who has “gone too soon” I wonder why it wasn’t me. Their existence feels important and irreplaceable—mine feels like a societal burden.
Although I am not vain enough to believe I am alone in these types of thoughts and feelings, I find myself feeling entirely alone; on a deserted island without anyone looking to find me.
I feel like a means to everyone else’s end. I am paraphernalia that is used and passed around, eventually to be discarded, replaced, or long forgotten and covered in filth.
The cold shiver reverberates through my spine and my body revolts. I feel the empty cold darkness between each bright, pulsing star.
Am I the darkness?
I am surely not the light.
Am I the cold vacuum of space?
I am surely not the warmth.
What is wrong with me and how do I fix it?
I can’t keep on like this. This ain’t living. This is cold, shallow existence. Take me to home—wherever that may be.
Spiraling out and had to thought dump. Please don't feel sorry for me. It won't help. Please don't tell me everything will be okay or that this is meant to be, it doesn't help. My soul is broken and my existence is defective.
