Where once feelings lay, Only strange copies remain. The sense of what should be experienced Or what is supposed to be felt.
A reflection of the original - Twisted and distorted - Not yet beyond recognition, But increasingly hard to decipher.
Familiarity - with this place - Is all that marks its irregularity. Knowledge that this has been before Signals it is happening again.
A worrying trend, when abnormality Becomes the mundane.
You’d think that being depressed made you sad all the time but I’m not sad that often, merely empty. Blank and drifting between self-made disasters. I’m not sure if I orchestrate them so that I achieve maximum pain or if they just happen that way because I’m a **** person.