Everytime I fall apart, I'm put back together in pieces tinier than before.

Grainier than before.

Discombulated than before.

Expansive than before.

Nothing happens for a long time.

So long that you think you might have grown incapable of feeling anything real.

Then you cross paths and everything comes crashing all at once.

Too much to bear.

Too much to resist.

So much that you just give up.

And let it all wash over you.

Until it all comes crashing down again

Only to fall apart in even tinier pieces.

Wondering if you're ever going to feel anything ever again.

And you keep going and going.

Deeper and Deeper.

And the deeper you go, the less meaning there is.

The less structure there is.

The less direction there is.

But you don't have a choice.

For you can no longer live on the surface.

You want to turn back.

But when you look back, you see nothing.

Everything behind you has disappeared.

There is only one direction.

Deeper and Deeper.

You start to relate less and less to the surface.

You're not able to form coherent sentences anymore.

You have very little to say.

Definitions don't stick anymore.

You start to forget everything.

Even your own name.

The memories start to get blurry.

So blurry that you forget where you are.

Then a few seconds later you remember you're in an apartment.

Your apartment.

The ceiling starts to look like a ceiling.

The table. The couch. The TV.

Yet, you feel a strange sense of unbelonging to everything.

Are these really mine?

Do I own this tv?

Do I own this couch?

Do I own this place?

Or do I just live here for now?