The argument drifts away, as though my consciousness has split into two different realities. I continue to argue, to scream and yell, and that is most definitely me, but then I am also here, inconceivably calm, looking in with the curious interest of a child trying to make sense of a face he has never seen yet acts as familiar and affectionate as those he sees regularly. It is as though I suddenly possess two consciousnesses functioning in tandem, united but distinct, conplimentaey but in opposition, two different perspectives coexisting simultaneously yet both distinctly me.
The glowing crimson thread pulsates from my chest with every venomous utterance, a twisting, constricting glow that emanates with an intensity which ought to be blinding. And with every burst of light, her end of the thread shifts from a dull blue to ever increasingly tainted with its own crimson, laced with the deepest, bleakest, brightest blends of black.
And then I hate myself with every fiber of my being. Even as that angry-me continues yelling, the calm-me becomes consumed with disgust and begins raging at the other. Yet here I think about both rationally, as if I were some third self looking on objectively. It's completely nonsensical, and yet a deep, intuitive comprehension nullifies all uncertainty. It's absurd, and it's insane, and it brings a sad realization:
It was getting pissed off at my ex-wife and losing my shit that saved me.
No comments:
Post a Comment