Dear Friends...
... I can not explain it very well, but it feels like I am losing myself.
Not my mind, though I am unsure how sane I am any more. No, I can feel my identity slipping through my fingers. Some terrible thing is happening to me, and I can not stop it.
Every night, when exhaustion over takes me and my eye lids droop, some thing happens to me. When I awaken, I am no longer me. I am some one else. And it happens every night. It is like I am being replaced. Like there are rows of dolls that form my conciousness. As one gets discarded another is opened, exactly like the old one in every way but originality.
I am not sure if I can call my self an original any more. I have been sundered and reconstituted so often, there may not be an original piece left to me. What sort of awareness is that? To be pulled down, torn apart, and sewn up over and over again?
Memories are indistinct and blurred to me. I can no longer be certain they were real- it may be that they were dreams. I dare not share them with others, lest I discover the awful truth of their manufacture. Regard less, it is not the me that speaks to you now in those memories. It is another, more distant I. One who I can hardly relate to, or empathize with. In many ways, I have come to hate and resent those past selves- they lived bliss fully unaware of my somniphorious multiplicity.
Even as I silently mouth these words to cold walls that rise up into unfeeling corners, I can feel the tendrils of slumber writhing under my muscles. Fear can propel action for only so long- sooner or later, we all fall under that dark rest of essential oblivion.
Do I resist its inevitability? Do I struggle fruitlessly in the face of insurmountable opposition, like the tragic Greeks of old? Can I conquer the terminal prophesy- the phoenixian cycle of death and rebirth? Or shall I surrender to that mindless, animalistic embrace and usher in another soul-less clone to fill the role that my late self so wastefully squandered?
I no longer hope for myself- the hallucinations that signal the onset of my destruction have already begun to swim through my eyes. The best I can hope for is that the next one will be my last. That the next self that fills my body and suffers under the weight of a hundred thousand past selves will find permenancy.
I fear the dreams of my infinite self-condemnation.
Not my mind, though I am unsure how sane I am any more. No, I can feel my identity slipping through my fingers. Some terrible thing is happening to me, and I can not stop it.
Every night, when exhaustion over takes me and my eye lids droop, some thing happens to me. When I awaken, I am no longer me. I am some one else. And it happens every night. It is like I am being replaced. Like there are rows of dolls that form my conciousness. As one gets discarded another is opened, exactly like the old one in every way but originality.
I am not sure if I can call my self an original any more. I have been sundered and reconstituted so often, there may not be an original piece left to me. What sort of awareness is that? To be pulled down, torn apart, and sewn up over and over again?
Memories are indistinct and blurred to me. I can no longer be certain they were real- it may be that they were dreams. I dare not share them with others, lest I discover the awful truth of their manufacture. Regard less, it is not the me that speaks to you now in those memories. It is another, more distant I. One who I can hardly relate to, or empathize with. In many ways, I have come to hate and resent those past selves- they lived bliss fully unaware of my somniphorious multiplicity.
Even as I silently mouth these words to cold walls that rise up into unfeeling corners, I can feel the tendrils of slumber writhing under my muscles. Fear can propel action for only so long- sooner or later, we all fall under that dark rest of essential oblivion.
Do I resist its inevitability? Do I struggle fruitlessly in the face of insurmountable opposition, like the tragic Greeks of old? Can I conquer the terminal prophesy- the phoenixian cycle of death and rebirth? Or shall I surrender to that mindless, animalistic embrace and usher in another soul-less clone to fill the role that my late self so wastefully squandered?
I no longer hope for myself- the hallucinations that signal the onset of my destruction have already begun to swim through my eyes. The best I can hope for is that the next one will be my last. That the next self that fills my body and suffers under the weight of a hundred thousand past selves will find permenancy.
I fear the dreams of my infinite self-condemnation.
posted by Jonc0re at
12:55 AM
2 Comments:
Quite a take on the concept that "every day is a new day" and that God renews us.
By
Nick, at 12:56 PM
Heh. That's a good observation. Amusing.
By
Jonc0re, at 2:03 PM
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