The Prismatic Self

Night time again. I ask for god to forgive me. An hour passes, I blink. I see myself in the reflection of my eyes. Pages sit on my bed, unwritten, I don’t dare touch them So they may remain complete in incompletion. I shiver and heave at the thought. Two more hours pass and I have touched them now. I sip at the powder-infused drink, warm and empty in my hands. I see myself in the reflection, I wonder if I have done well this time. Thoughts sit in my mind, untouched, but lurching constantly. I don’t dare touch them So they may remain incomplete in completion. I preen at the prospect. Two more hours have passed now. I still have not touched anything else, I cannot say the same for them. I rest my head but my eyes remain permanently open. I see myself in the mirror. They echo. I write more furiously, thinking, like an idiot, that seeing them will make me less scared, that other people seeing them will make it seem less real. Dream-like alternatives seem like a blink away, I sift through the excuses and fantasies, each better than the last, Each a new way to mask the happenings of my world. I go for my phone. Four more hours have passed now and light hasn’t stopped. But nothing but dopamine has infiltrated my blood, sickening, in the most pleasing way. It’s effective, to say the least. Tiredness sits on my brain, I don’t dare touch it. I finish my work with shaking fingers, my soliloquy is more of a speech, and I no longer entertain the prospect of my known audience, Instead I prefer the masses, seeing the actor spinning and crashing behind the glass screen, Oh so precious. I press save on the document and close the light infront of me, Leaving my reflection. I no longer want to see myself. But others may see what I am, what I curate. Peace will come tonight. I take a sip.