You probably have better things to do in your imaginary sphere than consider mine...
I'm taking a day off from life to fall into a fictional one. I finished "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky. It was beautiful. One quote particularly resonates with me:
"I would die for you, but I won't live for you."
Do you ever read a book and think you are someone else and then when you stop reading it you can't remember who you are? And then after a while you realise that you weren't so certain about who you were anyway? So you carry on forgetting and think of ways to wake you up.
Because I want to wake up, I've been taken by the zombie faeries and can't find my way out. The big ones keep me pinned down, but I don't mind. The small ones are the most evil. They flutter inside your brain and pull the light switch, have a bloody feast in the dark. It's hard to focus when the lights are off in your head and zombie faeries are devouring portions of you. And because it's dark you can't see at all, you can just sense them there, and the world outside becomes blurred and out of focus. Operational error.
A cure: leeches? Blood-letting? Self-evisceration?
I need to break my ship free from this glass bottle, sail upon the shards and actually feel, experience.
Maybe the zombies and I could make friends and sail together.
But I want to give them a taste of their own medicine, and devour portions of them too.
I hate people like me.
I'm not really anyone. I'm just a patchwork quilt, a collage of other ideas and other people and other ____, etc. A montage.