By Hussain Kachwala
I've been talking to myself a lot. More than usual.
I don't know if I'm getting more comfortable in my own skin or worse, and my chest is racing for reasons I don't know.
Is this why I talk so much? To let it out, for if it stays within, something inside will break the walls and take charge, so I keep myself preoccupied to keep that creature frozen in time?
The floodgates of that certain corner of my mind have creaked open again, the corner that I had locked for a reason. I'm slipping again, no doubt about it.
Phasing in and out of various realities at once, trying to see the future in worlds where the choices were a bit different, and outcomes a slight softer.
Delusions or visions? What is their nature, and why do I get stuck in them so often? Why do I feel like a spectator watching a play unfold?
Like a fly caught in a web, but the spider's movements are erratic; I do not know how and when fate will sing its melody.
The sensation on my skin feels different, yet not in a new way, I have known this feeling before.
The void has begun its conquest yet again, and with each defeat its malice grows. I can feel its acrimony upon my flesh, as it speaks to me for the first time, in the tongue of someone I used to know, someone who I thought had been vanquished to time.
The void must be faced, and I must sleep again.
By Hussain Kachwala
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