It's coming back to me now, the feeling
that I am not like the rest,
that the creature who resides
behind my eyes
is of a different breed,
a different style.
All the while
leaving claw marks
on my neurons
with a growling noise

That my voice is teetering,
veering toward the edge of
insanity
and the break line is cut
and I am losing control.

That this whole experience is not
my own to experience.

That the vessels
I call my friends
are empty,
except for a few crates
of laughter I must borrow
and tears that I must steal.

That none of this is real.

That my time is running out
and if I go out I might lose it

I get this feeling that there will always be more time
until there
isn't.