The imitation of sanity
I didn’t ask to be born into this world.
Everything began against my will—
my birth,
the school I went to,
the course I took,
the job I got.
Maybe not all of it.
No one really forced me.
I had a choice…
I think.
But I never truly wanted any of it.
Not like it was ambition.
It was just the path I was led to—
by someone.
It’s funny, coming from an atheist—
this idea of a predetermined path.
I thought I left behind the belief
in some higher power
pulling the strings.
Because if I do believe that,
then I’m letting go of the last shred of control I have—
the only thing I have left
to prove I exist.
The body is always here.
Seen by everyone,
touched by everyone.
But am I just a body?
To the world,
that might be enough to prove I’m real.
But only I know
what I’ve shed over the years—
piece by piece.
Some taken by others.
Some lost to time.
At first, I told myself it was fine.
That I could collect new pieces
for the ones I lost.
But I never did.
And now I have nothing left to give.
I’m just an empty shell
of whatever I once was.
Can I even say that—
when I can’t remember what I used to be?
Did I talk?
Did I laugh?
Did I live?
Maybe it was all a lie.
Stories my mind invented
to ease the pain.
That’s stupid.
If that’s the case,
my mind should have done better—
ignored its own existence.
What good does it do
to remember lost feelings?
Is that what I’m doing now?
Fuck.
Here I was, thinking I’m still sane.
But I’m not.
I’m a madman.
I’ve completely lost it.
What day is it?
Is there even a tomorrow?
I hope not.
Ha…
How stupid I was to think I’m sane.
What sane person
wishes for an end?
Sane people want to live.
They talk.
They laugh at jokes.
They want things.
They desire.
I tried.
Tried to imitate the sane.
Tried to talk,
to laugh,
to do the things they do.
Maybe I fooled everyone.
But I never fooled myself.
