Sometimes insights come at a most inopportune time. It’s like receiving a calling on Prozac. Is it real, is it me? You wonder. How could I be the same person in that moment as I am sober? We’re two different people, in truth, though you would not know it. Scary thought. Someone’s coming.
Panic. Except I can’t. I just cover his eyes. Can’t see. Like a fucking elephant in the room or something. Makes it awkward, makes it wrong. Is it wrong because I said so, or because they said so. Nothing makes sense, nothing is real. Too much poisons the brain. Can’t think straight. In an awful, horrible fog. Hurts. Make it stop.
It doesn’t have to make sense. Because in the end it’s only me, and I’m the only one that matters.
Is it dirty that I didn’t wash my hands?