It hurts.

I read the prologue of this new book I bought and it’s pretty beautiful how the author has used a bunch of commas and has stretched the entire prologue out into one single solitary sentence and I immediately wanted to try and do the same thing and so, here I am telling you about how today was a weird day, especially because of how I’ve been feeling all morning – broken and detached – just as any death grips album would make you feel, and I can’t quite put a finger on why I feel this way, broken in the darkness, as if within the pale moonlight in a cloudless night where I find myself in a road corner, with a broken mirror fallen in front of me, the reflection on the fallen shards that I see, not me, but a lot more than just me, as I see myself splattered into pieces of skewered versions of myself as if from within a Monet rendition of some form of Impressionism and it is this image that I wish I could paint but my fingers wouldn’t work as they stare out of the shards into my eyes, and as I look closely I get the inkling that the words aren’t even me and the paint isn’t even me and I’m not within the confines of this broken mirror but it’s something or someone else and this someone else knows who I am and that simply makes everything worse because it feels as if there’s this version of me that knows everything there is to know but beyond which there is nothing at all and I can’t seem to make sense of what’s being said and neither can she, and judging by how there’s such an enormous distance and there’s a tiny room I find myself trapped in, in the corner of the street, with a broken mirror fallen in front of me, I can’t simply stand up and walk out and go do what must be done, but the other guy knows what this is that must be done and in the distorted cracks of the broken mirror, he almost looks like he’s smiling and this is unsettling, disheartening, all the while making me feel as if I don’t belong within myself and I hope that I find myself some day, and stretched apart across the distance, it’s like my personality is torn, to a point where nothing is real anymore, and it’s all a broken mirror, in the darkness of the cloudless night, as the clouds pour down on me, and I sit here silently, trying to find myself cry, staring out as the winds blow from the farthest confines of the earth, doing nothing to calm the fettered wounds that bind me to this street corner, from where I know I must rise, and I hope some day in the near future I find myself having the courage to stand up and do just that, until when I must simply stare out into the pale blackness and hope for the noise to arrive and lift the silence all around me away and take it all away, eventually ensuring I could be where I must, when I must, as the winds blow from the distant rain clouds, pouring their blood red sorrow out into this cloudless night under which I lie, simply pausing, staring, feeling, crying.