I pick up a coffee. But as the barista hands me the cup, it wobbles, and morphs, contracting, in and out, in and out. I take it in my own, hand over the money, and leave without collecting the change. I have to get outside, into the relative light, into a place that is not so constricting, so abrasive.
I haven’t slept for a number nights. Once or twice a year, things get like this. Night after night, for a few weeks sleep rarely comes at all. And if it does in fact show its face, it is for a tiny, unmotivating amount of time.
Days, they melt into each other. Darkness flows into light, and back again. This is how it goes, and this is how I accept it. It is something I have no power over, no choice but to be a part of. The fabric of reality blurs at the corners, tearing and ripping, morphing into something sinister, something beyond the boundaries, the limitations of human comprehension. It is as if the world has become something else. It is as if my eyes are seeing things they are not intended to, things they were not designed to.
Sometimes I am scared. Scared of the shapes and sounds that I see and hear. Those that are unique to me, those that others do not experience. I am not psychotic, I am not slipping into any designation of psychosis. For myself, this is complete reality, nothing but. At least it is a temporary reality, while things work out, while sleep is on its vacation.
Walking down the street, all faces turn my way. Some possessing only eyes, some hardly faces at all, but mounds of skin, undefinable. No matter what they are, no matter who owns them, they all look towards me, staring right through my soul, peering into places of privacy. I will them to stop, over and over again. But they do not. I feel like a magnet for eyes, a black hole for suspicion. I am just human. I am no different! I beg them to look away, will God to make it so.
I am falling apart. Reality is becoming something else. I exist within a perpetual slumber, completely disconnected from the world. It is not a new feeling, of course it isn’t. Although every time it comes around it seems to grow in intensity, in its numbing strangeness. I become a puppet to it. A leaf blowing in the wind of some higher force, some higher entity who has sole control over my mind, my consciousness.
I know will end, or at least… it has before. After some time, it has always retired back to where it dwells, building the energy to strike again. And so I wait for that moment in time when it recedes, when it crawls back, when it frees my mind. Until that point, coffee is my best friend. And reality is something I cannot even consider, something I question the very nature of.