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escape comes in many forms, + i can't control a lot of them.

by danny's world 4 months ago in surreal poetry
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on dissociation

0. my Self moves without first informing me -

myself is not a sentient

but a cloud-shredded

hallucination an observer.

my mind feels like something i can't control. it's like living inside a bubble, watching from afar as my body does things on its own. it's like being a puppet, controlled by an Overseer, whose hands move me to its very whims.

i'm a mere speck of dust, lost in a maze, never knowing what to do with myself. i fall asleep in the living room sofa, + wake in the middle of the street.

00. a repetition:

to pace without a sense

entranced.

with a field of fog obscuring my vision, nothing is real. to pass myself in the hallway, blind to the face staring back at me. with a shroud of plastic over my eyes, i live in a dream. to study the empty streets, drawn imperfectly by the hand that moves me. time passes, somehow, leaving me behind - feet that pace beneath me, feet which aren't familiar to me.

000. my Self observes its utopian state

imagined &

hallucinogenic.

my Self questions identity

a discontentment &

an entity perceived by

unconscious beings.

i've been told i look a certain way, (but i don't know myself).

i'm speaking. strange words that erupt from my mouth + don't sound like me. at times i believe myself to be a shadow, imperceptible by those who do not know me. at times i am imperceptible by those who do.

on the best of days, i don't exist outside of my own head. on the worst days, i don't exist at all. i can see memories that don't belong to me - pushing through a cloud that pushes back on me.

0000. myself does not exist outside

its illusory universe.

myself does not appear when i

look in the mirror.

i've lived a thousand different lives, + exist in a thousand different ways. inside the heads of others, i'm a martyr, a bully, a regret. inside the head of my Self, i'm a very old soul.

when it rains, old lives flood my eyes - lives that were mine, long forgotten by rebirths. at times i believe nothing exists at all.

when it rains, i see my reflection in the puddles, + it doesn't look like me.

00000. a trick of the mind:

to see without perceiving

words are not words

my mind feels like something i can't control. it's like living behind a pane of bubble wrap, glazing over my surroundings as they disappear behind the clouds. it's like leaving my body, letting it continue to move on its own.

i'm a mere drop of water, drowning in the dirt piles that swallow me. i fall asleep on the back seat on the plane + wake in a different lifetime. i dream of myself, blooming into a flower from an unsteady bud.

0000000. my Self lives its life separate from me -

myself exists only inside a dream

surreal poetry

About the author

danny's world

neurodivergent, trans writer and parent. canadian. lover of nature, animals, mythology, travel, and knowledge. doing my best to feel comfortable inside this flesh vessel i call home.

i enjoy writing gay shit and torturing my protagonists.

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