one that actually cares about you

a few things about me - i see myself as a monster
i dream in words and shapes and colors
failing my way down the ladder of life

self-deprecation isn't attractive, i know
but i don't have to be attractive. i won't

the thing about psychiatrists is that you can't submit yourself to them for any kind of absolution, because they don't care, actually, if you live or die. at least, that's been my experience. there's no such hippocratic oath. if you annoy them, they will let you know. if you ramble, they will "gently" correct, and by gently i mean get to the point.

and i shouldn't complain about dreaming in words. there's something there almost like speaking a language. i see things, and install fragmented discs of memory, and i emerge from my slumber very early in the morning, always, which is a finely redeemable trait.

it's not the colors that make me a monster. it's the fact that i pretend to mean anything at all.

the consonance of color and sound, the absence of a sense memory that transmits to the waking world, the sensuality of unmeasured space, the silent and formless fright of waking to the clutches of a captor that does not exist.

of course. none of this is news. none of this is novel. none of this is worth telling to a psychiatrist because if every one feels this way, then no one feels this way, and i can assure you that everyone feels this way. obviously.

i'm a monster. i'm nothing. i'm the bottom of the barrel.
i'm the end of the oath, and i've got nothing left.

you're to suppose to look for someone that actually cares about you. you're supposed to know what that feels like, for real.

it's not that i deny that it's ever happened. it's that i begin to suspect my sensors cannot pick it up.

for i am a monster. that's how i see myself, because that's how my eyes are triggered.

out of sight, out of mind.

what sickened soul, in cacophany. disposable. unremarkable. unregardable. invisible.

unpleasant, because pleasance is an abstract thing.