I can’t put a label on what I’m exactly feeling. It’s a flux of negative emotions that I can’t quite seem to escape. Not when I’m alone, anyway. I never…expected you to fix my problems for me. I just wanted you to be there to face them with me. Memories of what we once were continue to travel at a progressively faster velocity in my hopeless mind. It never really stops. Slows down and takes a small break every now and then, I guess, but…never ultimately stops. Lets momentum carry it along. When it decides to take a “break”, it speeds up and comes to a sudden halt— crashing into the walls of my brain’s limbic system.

And when that happens…I reach an even lower level of pitiable numbness. I’m an emotional bottom-feeder, sucking on the blood of what used to be, picking at my imperfections…mistakes, increasing the magnitude of insecurities, hammering the malleability out of my collective stability. Every enzyme and protein in each cell is singly operated-repressed-induced-activated. Valves and arteries pump the virulent venom, rapidly quickening its pace, tortuously keeping me alive and yet, not alive at all. A rush of warm seas tread their own paths, continuously traveling its own current, down-down-down into oblivion. Myosin and actin filaments slide with a drastic lack of rhythm, pulsating random twitches in major limbs; phalanges reflexively reaching anywhere, at anything, to hold on to—wires of hair, numbers of nearby appliances and objects, arms, legs, torso—anything to take grasp of, extracting a second of the greatest tension. The open area of what is foolishly called a home begins to hungrily enclose my existence, eating away at any sense of security ignorantly imagined. Every ounce of sanity completely and seemingly irrevocably ceases into the faux pastures of captivated havens. The necessities of the maintenance for emotional and mental stability, all trotting away into sanctuary—sanctuary: the impignorated shelter where you belong, but continually to drown out of, into the hell of the cherished life lived with the past paramour, my inamoroto. A circle becomes more than a shape and more of a curvalinear path of disconnectedness. And then—

It stops.

Pauses, more likely.

And begins again, imperceptibly reaching into lower levels of wretched desolation.