All I want to do is stay at home. And if I could paint, I’d paint a millions paintings. And if I could write poetry and songs, I’d write a million verses.
Most folks are periods, why not be a question mark or a exclamation mark! But now all I want to do is stay at home. I’ve lost my final desperate grasp on reality. I’ve forgotten if I’m real, or if you’re real, or just what real is, or what real even feels like or means——what makes real, real? I look in the mirror and I no longer recognize myself. Are my memories a piece of my collective reality or a fleeting illusion like a rabbit being pulled from a hat? Both my parents have passed away and I have only vague memories of how we were once so close, and I miss them terribly. Was I once a baby, a child, a son, a piece of some threadbare tapestry that is coming undone? I look at my hands, I take my pulse, I breathe deeply, am I real? I feel myself tip toeing into madness.
I no longer believe in your exalted science or your revered holy books, instead, come to me in dreams or visions. My cage is constructed of what I thought I knew and what I once believed to be true. I must start again fresh, like a baby crying and screaming while being pushed from a comfortable womb.