My words have become cheap veneers to give off the illusion of an inhabited emotional landscape
I seek refuge in a hamster wheel of neurosis
Mechanical escapism seems to postpone terror, if only for this moment
If I fall apart, if I let go of this house of cards, what will happen? Where do lost souls go?
And whatever dimension I collapse into, isn’t that a part of me? Why then do I feel like I’ll fall into a bottomless pit? Or like I’ll drift into space?
Perhaps whatever is railroading me into falling apart isn’t so much a threat as it is the gravity of my soul compelling me to fall back into orbit?