There was a short moment, the other day
My work had ended- free and lone, I played
The strings vibrated in the plastic air
Sudden, my mind posed a question: "Do we care?"
I looked down and observed some flesh and bone
But it did not register as my own
Shapes swirled around me; no meaning attached
I glanced about, but felt as if detached
'My' room, 'my' song, 'my' life; they were just shapes
An absent sense of dread with no escape
The world ground on, but I, the husk, was still
There's nothing here, so I say come what will-
A voice of reason, hiding in my soul
Reached out to make the husk and the heart whole
Blinking, 'I' returned back to my pain
The thoughts once dispatched, now attached again
there was this moment the oher day where I was playing my guitar and then I looked at my hands, but they weren't my hands. Just... shapes. Holding more shapes.
I don't know how to describe it other than the normal human meanings we attach to things just... weren't there. It wasn't my room. It wasn't a room. It was just shapes. I don't know how else to describe it.
It didn't last long- somehow, I ****** myself out of it... but the feeling still hangs there in the back of my mind.