Warped Sense

My mind is full of silence as I continue to try to ease the pains of a simply complicated life. Is there something I'm missing? Could this empty box, plainly decorated with "This Side Up", be colored with sounds, shapes, and scents that I do not see? Or do I see too much?

Tonight the walls have moved, bodies before me seem unreal, a word, voice, a sound warps in space and seems so wrong. My head spins, I clutch my stomach catching the bile before it rises to taste then a pile of the floor. Nothing seems real. It's not real. Can't be. Is it?

Can I fake it long enough to feel normal again -- not normal, life as we know it isn't normal -- Can I fake it long enough to feel comfortable like curling up in fresh warm linen, again?

What if one day I never crawl out of this surreal world? How would I live here day to day?

I want to go home. At 27 years old I've never actually discovered a home. I search. I have hope. I believe that someday, somewhere I will feel safe behind the locked doors of home. Uncertain as to weather or not the home I yearn for is a metaphor or not I blindly search, bow and armor in hand. I hope that it isn't something I will find in only the last moments of my sad, surreal life.

What am I? Do others feel this out of place? Unreal? Warped? Is this how my schizophrenic ex pushes through life? Memory tells me a story of a time when my ex described moments that he thought nothing felt real. Is this weirdness a blinking yellow sign with capital letters that spell "YOU ARE FUCKING CRAZY GIRL"?

How do others go about their ugly lives pretending pretty without wondering if a moment or object in their very hands, cold and smooth as it may seem is truly real? Are they ignorant as bliss is derived from? If it is ignorance that darkens view do they chose it and buried inside in a tomb they are able to see what others do?

But it's not real. It can't be. I'll burn my eyes out. There needs to be more. I need more. Something real to cleanse this sickness.