Engulfed

The four walls that surround me could never know my story, but that is not their place. As I stare at the ceiling, the randomness of my mind play a tune for me that is bittersweet. The thought of drifting off to la la land has not hit my body, so sleep is not coming anytime soon. The spot that is being occupied by my physical being only caresses her so gently. Comfortable. Her life has become a tainted and altered form of what it once was, or at least that is what the voice of insecurity that exists inside of her is telling her right now. She listens as that voice tries to reason with her to do things she couldn't just do on a regular day. The events that only exist in her imagination start to play for her in a beautiful movie form that exhibits heartache, tragedy, laughter, happiness, and sorrow. Her normal state of confusion never sleeps, and her fixed  place in the world of curiosity will not move for anything. She focuses on the routine she has created for her life, and she plays with the idea of a change, but the voice tells her she's crazy. "What's the point?," she wonders as she turns to face the wall. She whispers to herself that she is fine the way she is, but the truth behind that statement loves to rear its ugly head. Wrapped in the covers is the body she possesses but does not own. Wrapped in a never-ending battle of confidence and insecurity lies her sanity and mind. Covered in a sea of mixed emotions and uncertainty is her heart. Once joking about being in a shell, she now finds herself trapped without knowing a way of getting out. Sub conscious plays a major role in this autobiography she calls living as it works its way through her actions, words, and dealings. The things she can't stand she loves dearly. The things she embraces she wants to destroy. What she wants she pushes away. What she needs she ignores. What is not good for her is supreme ruler of her twisted mental world, and she can only pray that this stays a temporary thing. To matter to her can be the worst. To be nonexistent is, in itself, a blessing. The voice keeps talking as she tosses and turns her way into a web that the voice is weaving. The feeling of drowning increases with each twist of her body. The feeling of failure takes over her mental state, but that piece of her that's made of stone attempts to quiet the ridiculous words that are being spewed everywhere, but she knows it will never die. The urge to create separation starts to grow, but the willingness to stay won't allow her to. No tears. No sorrow. No sympathy. No remorse. Hurt and pain surround her senses, but she has to remember that it is all hypothetical but feels all too real. There is something that the voice is correct about: she has found herself in that cycle again. Breaking out of it is a bitch, but it is not impossible. As she closes her eyes for one more last attempt at running through dreamland, she can't help but to wonder what will be the monkey wrench to make that machine stop and forever alter what she says just can't be life.