The Ghost Shelf

Sometimes I forget other people have feelings. Sometimes that they’re even human. I awoke to the sound this morning. My world shook and I was ripped from my dream. I’m consumed by whatever madness lives within me. The pressures of just smiling weighing me down. I look in the mirror and see the edges cracking. I am a book rebound and taped. Mended and re-mended.

The weather’s perfect for these feelings of personal isolation. Nothing bothers me. Nothing that isn’t me, anyway. I bother me. I’ve always bothered me.

The weeding process started yesterday (being Wednesday at the time of this post). Discarding books like discarding children, it’s not something a person with a heart can do. At the moment, these withdrawals will be placed on a “ghost shelf,” where their existence will continue without continuing. Like being dead while still breathing.

In the last month, I played with the thought of suicide. I’d never do it, of course. There’s Shaun to consider and the several people I haven’t pissed off yet. Besides, it’s never been in my fashion to leave behind a mess of things. Instead, I place myself on the ghost shelf. To continue exist in the sense of nonexistence.

I promise the next post will be a porn or something chipper like that.

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