I feel no senses. I don’t know what is happening to me. My body is restless, and my mind is filled with its stories. Stories that must be written. I feel as though death is slowly creeping into my cold bones, and I do not recognize this person looking back at me from inside the mirror.
I feel no feelings. Only what is playing out in my head seems real. There is a darkness within me, burning to escape. It does this through my hands, which shake when I am not putting them to work. Oh, how the stories burn inside of me. There are so many of them. I yearn to live inside of them, to be the characters of my own making.
There are skeletons in my attic, and I am digging through them. I’m bringing them back to life in various ways. I don’t know how they manifest themselves in the ways that they do, but it seems to be working. I am working at ten-speed, wheels constantly churning. This desire to create, always to create, it fills my mind and body.
I want to get away from here. I want to enter into my own seclusion. Seclusion - where I can always work, no interruption, no outside voices, no other beings sitting about, watching me as I drag through the house like a zombie.
My mind is a growing force. Or, the growing force inside of me has taken over my mind. I long to please it. I long to do its bidding. I long to bring life to the voices. It is working. With each breath I take, I breathe it into the others. They take it over from me. They grow stronger. They will be all that is left of me in the end. I must give them my everything. I must give them my all.