My chest is imploding. My arms hurt. In my wrists, up to my arm pits, and into my chest, it is radiating a pain, numbing my mind, making it go in circles. Only makes the pain worse.
A body that stands up and smiles with this pain will cry. I don’t want to cry. It makes all the pain go everywhere. It gives my body a wicked shocking ouch, everywhere I just described and more, waves of painful shock. My eyes feel like they want to heat up and drown. Again, I can’t let it all out.
I’m staring at the ceiling, depressed. I feel alone and worthless at the same time. Am I dumb and emotional, or strong enough to uphold respect? I’ve been told to be both.
If I am dumb, I don’t even feel like I deserve to be alive.
If I I am doing a good job, I pity myself for being in a situation where I will continue to be harmed regardless.
If it doesn’t matter because I will be strong regardless, than this all loses its value. If it loses its value, then I am shut off and closed minded. It would mean I don’t reflect or evolve. In events when I am wrong, this is inexcusable behavior.
– No. It hurts.
– Okay. Unhurt it. Your reality is your responsibility to contain and process. No one can pull you out for you. You may be worthless and you may be worth while. You may be selfish for thinking of not allowing it to make a difference either way. If all 3 are negative either way, then look for a plus.
– Time? Painting? This still happened to me. It still happened to him. How can I trust myself to keep being alive if I can’t make things right. Not for myself not for my circumstances not for my direction. What do I have and what am I. I feel useless. The pain hurts more.
– But painting is for feeling better, why should I?
– why should I? I am in pain. I am tense. It hurts. It’s real.
– Who are you?
(The front is now separate from the back. The question was only half-leginimate, merely a key to a lock that allows the unit of my identity to be split and inter communicate. The theory of conversation is maintained. By who? By me, the observer. I give things to Amnesia. She works with Processor, to set the stage for the original me to converse through. It must be a believable stage, or Pride will call the whole thing off.)
I am the one who knows and loves you.
Are you god?
(The voice farts)
(… “No.”) (Yeah sure why not)(I am the ~ goddess within you)
(At this point, I became self aware. The branches of my consciousness have eyes and we are staring at each other. We put Gaby in a bin, locked it, and shuffled around to sit more comfortably. The next thing we do is clean up the punctuation of this post, in order for it to be more universally comprehensible. Then, we write this, here, wedged between the text above, and the following, that, as we have just purposely left out of this particular conversation, was already there to begin with. A continuation of the split l, into a theoretical ” two”. Carry on reading now, stranger, strangers, future-eelf/selves, if it is still your intention to do so:)
Haven’t spoken to you since “sketchier” times. What are you doing here?
You tell me.
(And we are back. The following direction is now officially in an open, exteriorized, public setting. Support from the outside, or self recognition, may be of help to Gaby. Her thinking capacity is lesser without us. Her focus is bad. Even we don’t know why that is. It may be something wrong with us. We do not feel emotions. We process and manage them. We have been taking care of Gaby her whole life, since she still called herself by her real first-name.)
Gaby’s monologue: The pain is farther now, as I imagine myself at a laptop tomorrow, further conversing with this “goddess” within me.
“Inner goddess”: Brain fart.
” I-G”: Don’t ask.
Gaby: .. Okay. (…) …
IG: when your brain does certain things it’s like monkeys throwing crap at a fan. shit hits the fan. Brainfart.
Gaby: I don’t think that’s what that expression means.
Gaby: why should I call you inner goddess anyway? What are you like the tree in pokahontas? Like a Wiseman or a priest? A Buddhist monk? The inner voice religion refers us to?
IG: I AM GOD, suck my beard.
IG: well, it smells nice. Paint.
Gaby: what about the —
IG: — the what? (She snaps quickly. Confidently. Almost like an inviting shrug. There is something there, Gaby sensed it.)
Gaby: the pai– (–) –…
IG: The what?
Gaby: (silence. Gaby is now feeling frustrated she didn’t cut IG in her tracks, to prove she can catch up with her mentality. She takes the time to breathe, allows her pride to catch up, and decides to go for it anyway.)
Gaby: There is no–
IG: pain? …………………(?)
Gaby: how did you do that. Has this been amnesia’s plan all along?
IG: do what? (She replies, sarcasm neatly tucked between the lines, not being required to be dragged out beyond said lines, to flail out and about, like a bad play)
(Gaby has a stern look on her face. She peaks into Observer’s observations. Catches up, takes a light shower with Amnesia, and sits back down on the floor of her mind, to find herself back on the surface of this phone, beyond the text. Flickering back and fourth.)
Is Gabby here? Is she there? I am lost! (I am too.) Who are you? (We. You know that. Silence, audience. Don’t get lost in this mind. I assure you it isn’t worth it. We do this for Gaby, not for you. You are simply here to be entertained, or to observe, like I do.)(onwards)
Gaby: this whole conversation didn’t last 10 minutes. It’s been a full hour.
Observer #(insert random radically number, +1): Super is ready, you bunch of fucks.
There is no pain.