synapse.misfirings

I haven't written anything in ages. I feel as though I am slipping into the tide of comfortable ignorance. That disturbs me, to a great extent. I compose from pieces of oblivion and the very edge of consciousness. Shortages of matters of consequence, and drippings of life and lack thereof fluttering as would a shutter. Glimpses of the past, present, and future as they are now and were and never will be.

There was this funny question I used to ask myself: "Who are you and what have you done?"

Once upon a time I could not answer that. Now I can answer it partially...parts of me giggle with a remembrance of the former self--the naivete, ambivalence, and whimsical sprite that she once was, once upon a time. Reduced to a husk, you are now, my child, a sully husk! Remnants of once thrived stick to the core in tattered chunks, festering into a sort of emotion-driven parasite, reminding the heart of its follies.

Who am I? I sordid creature, tethered to her humanity and antisocial tendencies, thriving within her mind--a sort of chamber to find solace from the exterior whenever she can. Extending her arms to create and physically manifest a sliver of her being into reality.

What have I done? Nothing of substance, as of late. Push harder...move faster....keep running...and that too shall change.

Thoughts are running on empty...but that is what happens when insomnia strikes and leaves you without a hint of comfort.