<center> Sometimes, I go all silent, though never inside my mind. It's not that speaking hurts, just that I feel depleted. I can't talk, because I'm hungry, and need those bit of thought for myself.


I've been feeling very hungry, lately, and that's not good. To the point where everything about my life irritates me, from the people I see, to the people I don't. I fight the urges to latch onto the good things, because they deserve me least in this state. As I'm trying to order things, but can not. Every day that goes by feels like I know myself less, like I'm further from finding what's left of me.


I'm stuck in honey, or a spider's web. Dealer's choice. Even my words, which never failed me before taste ashen inside my mouth, and the things that once brought pleasure feel like the same old, same old. Can't claim this change is sudden, but that don't make it hurt any less. Feel like my own guts are betraying me, like everything I've known is turned upside down, and spinning on its head.


Like rot.
Like raw.
Like someone I'm not.


Someone who shouldn't be leading my life in my stead, someone I don't know what to do with. Or how to mold into the person I thought I'd be. And these words aren't helping, yet they fall like soot from my fingertips, sullying the earth, or in this case, the ether. Painting a map for someone who's given up on finding me. Someone who, for all I know, might not even be there.


![image.png](https://images.hive.blog/DQmTpn71VKRDceEYc1sDZHh5Hc4C9yX3Sy8sQ4UJyr9yA3r/image.png)


Tomorrow, this page will become matterless. Myself none the wiser for the words aborted from inside my head. Vile, and vicious. Grim, and nasty, though not in a good way. 
Are these demons? They may be. I'm blabbering, and straying to the surface. That's alright - they don't like it when I touch the heart of things, anyway.


I wish I had a key out of here. I wish there was a key, and for it, a lock appropriate, but there isn't. I try to keep my head, but the room is spinning, and the only time it's worse is when it grows still. I am not where I'm supposed to be, yet I lack the words to tell my driver to take me there. I know where I'm meant to be, but there's the thing, I only know it in my mind, and the catharsis that might save me is melting inside my brain. Liquefying. My last hope crumb. 


I'm tired of hands pulling at me, of looking around for an escape, and not finding it. Feels like marching through tar. Pitch black. Slow, and infuriating. Like tomorrow, I'm gonna wake up, and part of me will still be here, writing these damn words, and nothing will have happened. I'm tired of doing well, and surviving things. Cross-stitch "This, too shall pass.".


Only I know the thick layer of dust that's fallen over it. It is only me who knows that if one were to stand up, and shake the petty ornament, the dust, and the words would fall over, and all that would be left... would be *this*.
It is only I.</center>