Thoughts of a Worn-out Watcher

I speak when I want someone to hear me.

But, without fail, my thoughts are misconstrued.

And, without fail, I cringe as faces respond in misinformed delight to my words.

The horrible irritation that comes from these simple attempts to connect to others fills my being with fervor,

For blissful ignorance such as this has always been on my naughty list.

And, in moment like this, I lose myself in more ways that one.

My mind hides from me.

My heart loses touch with reality, and beats devoid of passion,

Soon after, my soul crawls inside that pulsing mechanical furnace inside my chest and revels in its synthetic heat.

The heat is pitiful.. but something alive with no life like my shriveled soul can’t really tell the difference between existing or living.

So my innocent soul likes it there.

I haven’t been able to find her for a while – the hooligan.

She’s been gone for longer than usual.

I’m not sure why she is so much more scared of me than my mind seems to be.

I mean, my mind and I have a pretty consistent relationship.

He comes back to me enough so that¬†existing in society is obtainable –

Enough so that no one can tell that my soul is missing.

I can’t tell if I am thankful that no one notices.

I can’t tell if I will ever find my soul again.

I can’t tell if anyone will ever understand me.

I can’t tell anyone that I am..

But my thought is interrupted,

And suddenly my eyes focus enough that I can see the edge of a grin –

A grin that tricks me and makes me want to tell it my secrets.

So I do.

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