The line between reality and dreams is blurring.
I spend more and more time deciding whether some things really happened or was it just…was it what? Was it a dream? A sense of déjà vu, constantly haunting me. Things that happened that I swear I’ve already seen.
Premonitions? Everything’s been the same so far.
Days have all smudged into one grey line. I can vaguely recall something happening, but never when, what time, in what circumstances. I see things, but I can never confirm if they’re there. Something may not feel right, look right, and it won’t really matter. A drum. Beating pain into my chest.

A glitch? Reality, dream. All looks the same through the telescope of retrospect.


Thoughts are escaping my head. How I wish they would stay for a little longer. They come and go, passing, moving, flowing, changing, mutating. Transition. Everything, in a constant state of flux. If not anything else, altered by time. But time cannot break the essence of memories, especially the painful ones. It just coats them in dust, adds years to their core, creating a steadily growing hole in the walls of your mind. Sometimes I forget.

And just when I start feeling he burn of bitterness, knowing I mean so much less, how I can never live up to what she used to be, I remember who’s playing who.
I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t bring myself to dissect this. It’s just a thought. It passes.

I’ve lost the spark. Where’s the fire, where’s the sweat, blood and tears poured into it all. Where’s the responsibility, where’s the sense of duty, obligation.
Oh yeah, I let that go. Where have I gone?
The pain was so raw then. It was an escape. It was a route out, an alternative pathway.
You were my catalyst. And now you’ve segmented. I’d rather feel like I’m dying inside than outside. I’d rather blaze than ember. But with passing time you vapour out and turn into this apathetic rusty wreck with misty eyes and dull pain to keep you company.
It’s all a mist. All glazed over. Given up.
And yet, those orbs are still searching.
I still keep gazing up at the horizon. I will die looking at that fine line, disappearing off into oblivion.
Searching. Longing. Waiting. For that something.
Such a solitary existence is bearable only when you’re not reminded of the things you lost.
But when you catch that look in someone’s eye. It’s almost embarrassing, and ever so slightly invasive, because it doesn’t belong to you. It’s not meant for you.
And then you drop. And you remember just how empty you really are.

The ache moves further down, and you can’t quite explain why but you swear you can feel shards of glass breaking off from an already shattered whole.

“Was it the bullet, or did your heart shatter…?”