• I can feel it.

    I’m slipping.
    I know it.

    You don’t know what I mean,

    How could you?
    No one really does.

    Does it matter?

    Do I matter?

    I’m just as insignificant as you.

    Sometimes it’s just easier
    To pretend I’m special
    Gifted. Sighted. Talented.

    Always looking for abnormality
    In myself. Magical properties, perhaps.

    In the end, the only reality I know
    Is fictional. Fake.

    Am I a fraud?

    I’m one with the stories of my mind
    The characters weaving themselves
    Out of distant traces
    Of me.
    Of you.

    Of everyone around me.

    The truth is there is no truth.
    How contradictory.