On the edge of my consciousness

On the edge of my consciousness is where I am most of the time, looking out from it, looking at the view which always seems to change the way it's perceived yet the theme is, for the most part the same.

Consciousness itself, the concept, it's all felt quite differently than it's been previously described when experiencing it in first hand and being aware that you're experiencing it first hand is a whole different concept in itself, most of us get stuck on the first half and never make it to the second and even if we do, that second one is hard to make it out of.

Mostly on the edge of it, sometimes in and out of it, I can be both unaware of it and very much aware of either one or the other or both at the same time and that really makes the real and unreal identical to the senses.

Is it my consciousness? Is it one consciousness? Is it our consciousness? Is it yours projecting onto mine? Is there any consciousness? -And if so is it the unconscious or the subconscious, or maybe the conscious... either way I find myself falling, sometimes floating, sometimes both, watching everything I thought I knew not be what I thought, everything that was isn't and what's supposed to not be, is.

I never know who I am, what I want, what I feel, I may have an idea sometimes but that idea always seems to be the wrong one and the me that was no longer is. My emotions betray me, the thoughts do too, my brain never stops the movie and somehow I betray myself without knowing who that self is or what role I plays in all of this or who I even is.

Somehow consciousness lies here, wherever I may find myself, whether it's at the top of the hole looking in, waiting to drop or even jump, maybe it's during the fall whilst everything around me is destroyed which in turn destroys me on the inside or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe it's also there at the end of the float, the landing, whenever it is that I am able to lift my head and open my eyes, whenever it is that I may remember that I am alive, when I become aware again. Is it always there? Even when I am talking to those already in wonderland? What about those who tell me to drink this or eat that and maybe then I'll fit. Those who because they appear different I don't recognise as my own, or as reflections of my own self?

Is it there during the whole facade of what is and what isn't? Listening, observing, watching as I set my self on fire and burn, watching as I drown over and over again, watching as I let the ground swallow me, watching as I plead for the wind to become me so that I too may be free.

And if it is, all it does is just watch, it doesn't save me, it doesn't help me, it just watches.

So is that me? Am I that? Then tell me to react. Tell me to stop this. Tell me to figure it out so that I may step away from wonderland. Wonderland is my home. It's my home I made, to keep me safe from you. I made it with my tears, I made it with the best of intentions, to be enough for you so that I may be loved by you so that you may keep me and in turn that would make you happy which makes me happy and then maybe I'd be safe.

But I don't know who you are or who I am, I don't know what's real and what isn't, I don't know what is or what was. I know what they tell me but in here it doesn't feel that way, in here it feels a lot different to what you're describing, to what many describe.

Give me a mirror, show me who I am. It won't make a difference, because I don't feel like that reflection, she's just another who has suffered in my hands, another who became collateral damage.

Time is bent, space is bent.

In my wonderland, it's all bent, full of me's who I don't recognise as reflections of that me I have yet to know, and some come and go and some stay, all with different roles to play, and in my darkness, some me's come to play, some to taunt, some to push through the theme of the day but mostly they just watch, they watch and they cry. Some who's heart have gone cold watch too and feel everything and nothing at the same time, there are also those who's heart once beat out of love in safety but now beat in anger, another type of love, an unsafe type of love. There are those who want it all to end; the cycle, the hope, the disappointment, the ruins and they try their best for nothing to take over. There are those who bend reality for me in trying to keep the illusion of safety alive within, some darker, some more colourful but they all emerge from the darkness which I guess I created, and they all watch me plead to them for help, watching a desperate, lost soul self-destruct in the process of screaming out to those tho only look at her confused, trying to show her that they're only mirrors, that's all they are and that's all they can ever be.

And I look again, and it's just me. The me who has no idea who me is.

The me who plants a seed of doubt in my head, the me that tells me I am asleep. The me who echoes within the words 'wake up' and linger a whisper of a dream I convince myself that I am in. Never knowing what to do or what to give so I do and give everything of me or nothing at all.

And somewhere in between that is where I am, somewhere on the edge is where I remain, on the edge of my consciousness, or consciousness itself.

Constantly waiting for someone to come and find me, somewhere where I can't find myself.

Constantly realising that no one is coming, and if I can never find me I will never leave the edge of my consciousness again.