I woke up early again this morning. I look outside but I don’t see anything. Everything is taking place inside myself. Sometimes I wonder if everything has taken place inside of me always. And everything and everyone on the outside was just a projection of my dreams, fears and longings.
After all these years, so little feels real. Or indeed lived. What if I never really lived? What if I was born dead and been living my life as a ghost? A ghost with human flesh and human features. Something which resembles a body, with a functioning brain and heart. With limbs that move but never go anywhere or touch anything.
Even now clasping my hands I don’t feel them. I could touch the lace curtain but I already know what it feels like. There is light. I’ve always loved it, especially the soft light in the afternoons which illuminates but doesn’t expose things I don’t want to see.
It’s better just to sit here and not move. Waiting. But not really waiting. Longing. But not really longing anymore. I often wonder if we are given a fair chance to live a real life or if instead we get mauled and torn and merely limp through our lives, never letting go of our crutches. And only at the very end realising we didn’t need them. That we could have taken a chance.
But then I forget all these silly thoughts and questions that don’t lead anywhere and instead just sit here, not looking at anything.