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DISTANT AND DETACHED
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SQUANDERED SERENDIPITY
Sometimes when I read my own writing it seems so foreign. It doesn’t even seem like my own writing. I wonder the circumstances of the writing but no recollection comes. What was running thru my head at that specific moment in time? It almost seems as though it wasn’t even me speaking. But of course it was. My sloppy handwriting sells me out. It’s such a strange twist to not even be able to recognize one’s own voice. I can hear myself speak but it is not clear. It reverbs like the cricket chirping of a nitrous rush. It is me—just a little distant and detached from myself.
Wallow in madness
moments of mass confusion
distant and detached
freeze frame a moment in time
no recall of living it
