wander sick in such a pleasant life. 

I am.. ugly. I split into pieces and recombined into..

I am not a whole person. I am… ugly.

Maybe it is so obvious who I am. Maybe everyone reading what I write knows me. I might only be complicated to myself. I am… paranoid. I know what I do, but not why. I try to be light-hearted when people ask me about things. My efforts to seem casual and normal are likely ineffective, maybe even sad. Maybe people talk to me, and go off and say, "how sad." Maybe I'm one of those people so disconcerting you don't even want to talk about them. you just want to forget seeing them. Yes, that's it. A gun in my mouth. No, I don't have one. But I can get one. Watch me do it. I can.. I could… I won't. I don't have a reason not to.

Imagine my body is a room which my mind resides in (let's not get terribly specific with the definition of 'mind' here.) Let's say it's a good day and that semi-functional part of me is doing all of her stuff. There's this light on her side of the room illuminating all of the tedious tasks she undertakes. But very near, in the dark half of the room, is every other part of me. And she is this thing, sitting and facing the wall, with her eyes rolled back into her head, staring at everything ugly inside of her. And she is panting. Panting away the seconds until she slithers over to the functional me and claws into her rib cage.

And then I'm her. I am her. I will likely wake up tomorrow and the light will be on again. It's just a matter of time. If only the nightmares could be a little different each time. Then I could rationalize being afraid of them. After so many years, they only feel more real.

I am nothing. I could have everything, but I am crazy and so I reject it all.