It's happening again. The lines between voices growing thicker, more noticeable; the voices less controllable. I am losing touch with myself, or rather myselves. Small memories, such as what I just did less than five minutes ago is hazy, as if it were a dream. Simple tasks, such as eating, seem such distant memories though they just occurred. This isn't normal, or right. I am frightened. I know I am slipping. I can feel it. The ground is crumbling at my feet, the sky falling down around me, and I can do nothing but whisper into the storm that doesn't truly exist.
What is real? I cannot tell anymore. Did I speak to you? Did I have a cup of coffee? Who am I again? My name isn't mine. It is that of a distant memory long forgotten, yet still remembered. Why? Where have I been. Why do I recall things I have never experienced, and experienced things I can no longer recall?
I am reaching for you. But my fingers cannot reach reality well enough to grab a hold of you. I think I'm almost there and your image wavers, distorted by my touch like a reflection within the water. Why can I not hold you? Why can I not hold the love that slithers up my spine?
Tiny little feet, tap dancing in my mind. Thousands of little feet and hands and voices, chanting and clapping and dancing as I slowly lose control, wanting only to understand, to reach you, to know.
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