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I think that I’m like a cat. Not just the way that they’re stereotypically untrusting at first, loving once they know another, sometimes lashing out, et cetera.
Schrödinger’s cat. Both alive and dead. Neither alive nor dead. Whatever way you see it, the state of the cat is still unknown.
I wonder if the cat itself even knows.
I’d like to think so.
Except if that were true, that would be something we don’t have in common. I don’t really know if I’m alive or dead.
Sure, I know that my heart is beating, my blood is pumping, my brain works, but am I actually living? Am I just a ghost that may, one day, be exorcized? My host probably should exorcize me. I almost feel bad for them. Almost.
That’s assuming I’m just a ghost.
It seems that I’m just as important as a ghost. Except people don’t grieve over me.
Will they ever? Or will I just end up being forgotten?
Stupid question, of course. Forgotten is my current state already. Sort of like the cat. No one cares enough to actually check. They might use the example, but no one will ever open the box.
Schrödinger’s cat is simply an example. A dummy. An experiment.
I feel hollow majority of the time. Sometimes it’s the exact opposite. I spill over while being full.
I wonder if the ‘scientists’ around me actually care, or if they just make note of it.
One of the cons to overflowing is that sometimes I don’t have any ‘surface tension’. I simply just explode.
While I’m hollow, mold grows. It’s like I’m rotting from the inside out. Once I feel full, the mold often expands. Expanding so much so that I combust. I’m not excusing my actions, you can blame me, but at the same time, don’t.
Please.
You’re only growing more mold.
Words and actions that could be lusciously refreshing turn rotten.
Like apples rotting to their cores.
I also rot to my core.
Nobody cares to notice.
When they do notice, by some miracle, they tell me the words that I’ve had engraved into myself umpteen times.
Scars that litter my rotting, moldy excuse for a person. For a body.
“It gets better. I promise. Everything happens for a reason.”
What a lame gimmick.
I wish that those people would be inhabited by the ghost of myself for as little as a minute.
The host of my current self would watch them shrivel.
How pathetic.
Similar to their form of comfort.
I understand that it’s from a good place, but I’m sure you can at least try to imagine the useless scars that they’ve given me.
They’re actually not useless at all. They simply make things worse.
I guess that’s their purpose.
I wish I had a purpose.
Scars are supposed to show how fierce and determined you are.
I don’t care at all about my physical scars, but I do the ones that I, myself see.
The ones of advice.
The useless advice.
I care about those ones.
I know that something must be wrong with me, but I seem to be screwing up the state of being screwed up.
The advice is supposed to help, but they make me full.
They make me explode.
I wish that I could be able to be so blissfully unaware.
Or that I could be able to comprehend that fact in the first place.