Its a strange thing, knowing that you’re going to lose your mind; you can’t fight inevitability.

Its a strange thing, knowing that you’re going to lose your mind; you can’t fight inevitability. You can feel it, watch it, experience every last bit of it as your sanity crumbles, and its so torturously slow.

The giggles that leave my scratchy throat sound like baby soft skin rubbing against sandpaper, feels about like that as well, but I don’t particularly care considering my brain is leaking from my ears in chunks and globs.

It’s a bit sad, not for you, but for all those who watch. For some odd reason they feel that choice is the only way to truly be human. What am I, then? An animal?

But animals can choose.

Something inanimate, then? Or have I simply ceased to exist?

You regret agreeing to this. Everything happening is your own fault... but a part of you knows this is the only way. If you hadn’t agreed to the torture, Amyah would be here, in your place. The blood pooling on the ground would be hers.

You close your eyes, and she is there, instead, the ends of her dress trailing through the blood, and you regret having wished for anything different, because it is your burden to bear. And while people are the only animals to ignore instinct, humans, she believes, are the (It cut off there, I don't know what they meant to say lol)

If you tune out the pounding footsteps, you can almost hear the whisper of wind chimes beyond her bedroom window, feel the warm press of a coffee mug against your smile. Amyah always forgot the sugar. You would wrinkle your nose and she would laugh until you smiled, too. Every morning, when I wake up, I feel a bit more beffudled, and the confusion lasts longer. The lasting effects, following me all day, take up more room in my mind, and take the place that holds all rational thought for their own.

I stop myself before I think anymore. That will trap me into this spiraling world of nothingness I call my head and my mind.

Stop myself from thinking because the only way to get through this is to become crazy. I will lose my head by my own free will. But not right now, when they aren’t here I like to pretend to be normal.

I was born with buzzing in my head. At first I thought bees. I am good at building honeycomb-walls. Little, sticky bits of ache slip through. But most of the happy grows wings to flutter away. It’s easier to leave than stay. I am not honeycomb-shaped. I am no shape at all. It can’t be bees. My mouth has never dripped liquid-sugar. More like oil spills. Still underneath-tacky. Prism-meniscus, bouncing light across its own surface. Things that are pretty to look at, but toxic once swallowed. Spilt-oil. Now that’s a thought. Maybe I have a leak. Engine-ruptured. Hoses, tangled and bursting. Shadow-sludge, dripping off grey matter. Then again. Oil cleans. At some point I would have been grace-filled. Well-kept. And I’m all sacrilege. Polluted. That doesn’t work. Something else. Buzzing. Thrumming. Ceaseless. But also phantom. Could be a hologram. That could fit. Substance-lacking. An idea. Haunting. All electric-shock, humming across my cognitive-cage. High voltage. Explosion-poised. Ready. The only flaw there is the amount of power it would take to sustain that type of operation. I am energy-spent. More of a frayed extension cord than dynamic force. Strong enough to shock but not enough for a constant surge. Like the broken fan-blade throwing everything off kilter. Tick, tick, clank. A window-unit AC. Not a new model. But the ones from a few decades back. Constant-rattle of hot air pulsing against busted metal, cooling-coil. Antiquated, useless. I function at 1,000 BTU. Max capacity. It’s so fucking depressing. Can’t keep up. Never enough. And then I’m crying. So now there’s the possibility of low-power electricity jumping against the rapid current of tears making a quick trek from my eyes to my collar-bones. I’m getting off-track. Track. Trek. And then it hits me. The droning, purring, buzzing vibration that never leaves. My depression owns a treadmill.

"Have you ever felt like you were running out of time?"

Yes. The day I met him.

The day I fell for him.

Every single day after that.

I felt every day

That I was running out of time.

And I was right.

Because I did run out of time.

That led to us having right feelings

At the wrong time.

And since then

Everything has been about

Timing.

"Timing is everything."

And the timing is never right.

Why couldn't the timing

Be

Right?

Were we just a fault in a code?

An hourglass meant to run out?

Something meant to fall apart?

I'm running around,

Hoping you'll come back.

But instead

I'm running out of time.

Like a little kid looking out the car window playing the roadtrip game, count the yellow cars. They see so many more than they ever noticed before now they’re looking for some. Taking the same trip on the way back without playing the game they don’t notice the yellow cars, but they do see some buildings they never noticed before. It’s a game of the mind. If you’re looking for something you will see it. This also goes so because you are looking for something and only that one thing, so much passed by unnoticed. Life is big and vast. So much more can be seen when the blinders are off. Focus on the whole trip, not just the yellow cars.

Nothing but a shadowy figure, I begged her to slow down. Give me a chance. The venom of lactic acid tightened around my thighs, strangling their ability to breathe. It’s pure agony. Sweat drips profusely, mixing with the steady stream coming from my eyes. I can do better.

I’ve been watching her for a long time, or maybe it is more accurate to say she has been watching me. At the ripe age of five, I tumbled onto a thick slab of concrete and she was there, whispering in my ear to be more careful. The first time I got too drunk, she guided me to a toilet, letting me know that I am more than the snarls of peer pressure make me out to be. The first time the evil bitter-sweet powder shot up my nose, her watchful eyes tore into me, ripping apart my soul. She always knew the right path, but I had been too stupid to take it.

I took another breath and pushed even harder. She seemed closer now, maybe even reachable. I bit my lip hard, fighting the venom. A sweet rust flavour seeped onto my tongue, mixing with the briny taste of sweat and tears. Please, just stop.

She began to fade away when the cutting taste of liquor began to be sweet. When my nose began to bleed in the morning. When my phone stopped ringing, a letter from the dean gave me a final warning, and red papers were shoved in the crack of my door frame. I’m still here, she’d say. But you are running out of time.

With a final push, I sprinted. My legs wobbled and my head was full of air. But she stopped. I could make out her details—her legs healthy and full. Her face colourful and light. Her nose wasn’t crusted and her eyes weren’t bloodshot.

You look beautiful, I thought, as I looked in the mirror. Let me try again.

Pit-pat, pit-pat.

Her feet hit the ground quickly as her breathing remains erratic and heavy. Eyes wide, she glances—just for a moment—behind her, but already that has wasted too much time. She turns and continues running, her heart racing a million miles an hour as she struggles to stay ahead of The Thing. Tears streak down her cheeks but she has no time for sadness, no time to get away. She knows it is too late.

The Thing drudges behind her, a mass of darkness and souls consumed by its terror. The Thing brings only gloom, despair, and agony, a trifecta of anguish as each day grows more and more terrible, even after she thinks that the days are as worse as they could be.

She would be wrong.

Life creates only The Trifeta of Anguish, the misery of life, and we must continually run from it, until the day that we are consumed by its damning grasp and released into Eternal Rest.

Running - within myself I see beauty and ugliness. battling each other constantly for control. what they should be doing is becoming one unique combination. without this inner struggling I wouldn't be who I am today. my thought process would be monotone. my conclusion would have one solution. all my issues would have one outcome. I could get over it that much faster. I'd be boring. but nothing about me is boring. I amuse even myself at times. laugh at my own jokes. find humor all day long when others can't even understand me. I see myself in a corner, in time out, nose in the corner touching the wall, smiling, waiting for another chance to cause mischief. wanting to be ugly on the outside. But then beauty is in that same corner fighting to stand up, trying to remain calm but can't. attempting to be calm, assuring the ugly it's better to be nice, life can be so much fun without the ugliness. beauty is trying to teach ugly how to transform from a caterpillar to a butterfly. letting him know there's a lot more to life than being grounded. telling him it's a whole other world out there when you can soar. float on the wind and enjoy life. go just about anywhere and be accepted everywhere. but ugly wants to be accepted as ugly and no matter how much beauty wants to be beautiful it wouldn't need to be both. this, I don't need to be like you is a misconception. because I am you. it took being looked down on for many years by everyone around me ( cocoon ) to be transformed and renewed ( butterfly ) by living with values I found by letting God work in my life. I have become unique to his design and his making. it's my turn to thank him with my actions.

The fiction stories that shaped who I am would have to be Tell Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe), The Shining/ Christine/ Mr Mercedes (Stephen King) and Kongo (Micheal Crichton). The way characters are developed in each story, causing a person to connect and feel for the titular character on a personal level is a skill that I crave to possess.