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The Madness

Talking to yourself again?

By Steve BoggsPublished 7 years ago 2 min read
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Photo by Ludde Lorentz on Unsplash

You wake up one morning and realize, "This is not me." But the reflection in the mirror speaks a harder realization to dispute. "This is you," it says from a mouth of silence. "The real you... the you who exists only in truth."

The eyes of the reflection widen and stare deep into its resemblance in flesh, trying to understand its own betrayal.

The unthinkable happens. The world breaks. The universe cracks. The mirror shatters into a hundred little, broken reflections of disillusion.

They say the soul screams when the mind weeps or something like that, but it's quite the opposite. The soul can barely handle more than the mind. It's far from infinitely stronger, let alone impervious. You can feel it in agony when the mind begins to break and foundations begin to crumble. They are one and the same after all.

You wake up one morning and realize, "This is me." But the mirror speaks a harder truth. "This is you," it says in silence. "The you you are today... the you who exists in today's truth."

Today was yesterday and tomorrow will be next week. The universe begins to open behind the cracks of disillusion. Up becomes left and right becomes backward. The world spins as you find your balance standing on a floor in the sky. The mirror grabs your attention like flame to a moth and you stare in disbelief of the words spilling from its silence. After all, how can you fight something that doesn't exist?

You wake up one day and realize that yesterday never happened, tomorrow will bleed into last week and it doesn't really matter because you're not even a real person. How could you be when all that you believed was all facade?

I woke up one morning and realized that I didn't understand the calm. Maybe that's because it didn't truly exist. I woke up one morning and realized that I wasn't really me. I woke up one morning and realized that my shadow lied to my reflection. I woke up one morning and felt.

It's too bad that one morning was so long ago that tomorrow never came and yesterday was a month ago. It's too bad I'm just the ghost behind the shadow. It's too bad I'm not really here to tell my story and it's too bad my story can't be fiction. I think it would make a nice story of hope through madness. But madness doesn't have a happy ending because madness never ends.

surreal poetry
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