Ghosts and False Liberation

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Picturing my ghosts and I begin to get a creepy feeling that rides up my spine into my neck and crawls through my skin. My ghosts began to manifest.

Shadows of thought and the blanks spots of discarded memories flash before my eyes until I realize there ain’t nothing scary about the thoughts in my head.

I am free. A liberation of music in my ears and a revolt of self-altered consciousness. All lies.

I’m moving from the truth in my heart to the induced trauma of realizing I’m awake, that this moment is life and it’s happening all around me. Not a liberation or revolt but a rout, a retreat from reality.

The phantoms, the specters, the ghosts of me will give chase as long as I refuse to face them. What is required to be rid of my monsters? Face your fear, face fear, conquer or perish, move forward or slip back into the dark abyss.

Who the fuck am I? Am I the mosaic or the smashed little pieces that consists of its whole? Am I the constantly changing self I seem to be always chasing or am I that thing I pretend to be, that better me I strive to be? Or am I that cat that just goes along in agreement to the verbs that others speak, unable to stop nodding my head, thinking to myself “this is all wrong.”

I am the consistency of perfectly cooked chef-made scrambled eggs.

I slide into my soul like a well-worn hoodie.

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