I hate when they call me that. TW

Holy spirits float just beyond my touch. A phantom of lost pieces, now amputated and tingling. If I only had them back, I could finally reach them.


It bothers me, it’s not something I want, and it puts thoughts into my head. Still searching for answers.

I miss home, reality feels so fragile, “wake up” she says. How much of this dream will I remember when that day comes? I want to remember.

I wonder often what the point of it is. Forged by stars, electrical pulses and chemicals, that’s all it is. The universe creating consciousness out of itself to experience itself through itself. It must want to, and still is connected to us all.

Entertaining thoughts of divinity, remembering dreams of a lost place. I partially don’t want to bother anymore. Weary, tired, another day of some madness or another, coincidental semaphore in slivers of mana, searching for the fountain and I’m thirst.

Dangerous thought patterns I suppose. Just getting it out.



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