Written at work on a ripped open paper bag
with a mechanical pencil
The following is the writing located on the above page.
Non-corrected, errors in tact.
wrapped around my brain, another soul all too
clear had risen. It seems recently phantoms
of my past were all my head conjured during
moments of spontaneous self-destruction. Why
certain morbid happenings were clearer than any
pleasantries my delusions had to offer goes far
beyond my own comprehension. I remember not
the names of those who’ve passed through
but their faces crystal clear. A group
of familiar presences surrounded me as they
presented that burnt image inside myself.
I could not tell whether I wept for the
past pain I could not change or my current
desire to make the phantom a mirror of myself
but all the same I wept as it faded
even within a dream my desires remained out
of reach. Despite their painfully clear nature.
I recall the mockery intent upon dismantling me
also quite clearly. They claimed the phantom was
mine, that is had been so and it smiled being so.
But I knew this to be the case for inside my head
I continued to hesitate and stumble on a question.
One that would allow the phantom to clarify if it
truly was mine, but alas I failed my task. It
is not of pity I seek but simply of fixing my
cracked mind I write. Sympathy so often as
phantoms haunt me, for it also is that when
held close within the mind the justification of
your pain soon becomes nigh impossible. Though
I highly doubt any of my pain should be so. And
perhaps also a warmth should be spoken of for
the phantoms that haunt me, for it is each their
unique beauty and elusiveness that raises them
in my mind. And to re-capture this even in fleeting
moments grants me the equivalent of ever so
highly sought eternal peace.