Dissociation

When the silence grows even louder, and drowns out all the sounds that aren’t even there.
And the emptiness grows bigger, so big that there isn’t even space for my thoughts.
And I try to remember what I was feeling, less than a minute ago, but there is nothing that reminds me of what I was hungry for. It’s a hunger for feelings, for emotion, for sensation and for purpose.
A purpose this empty space lacks, that I lack in this empty space. And I want to keep drowning in what was too much even though it was nothing at all, and I feel like maybe the universe hates me so much that it ripped me out of life again, but loves me just enough to keep me somewhere safe for the time being. It’s lonely here, but somehow that’s okay. I don’t want anyone to come visit. They wouldn’t like it, probably, they wouldn’t understand.
Is this what life has chosen me for?
I feel like my existence is a soap bubble, and from time to time it pops. But instead of disappearing there’s an even bigger bubble. I fall and fall and fall and I stop falling, yet I never hit the ground. It’s not floating, not sitting, not kneeling and not laying. Not standing either. Is it anything at all?
I want to scream but my voice is gone. I want to move but I can’t, and my eyes yearn to tell you that I need your help, they crave your assistance, for you to save me. But my eyes don’t move either. I feel paralyzed, trapped, frozen in time, but I also feel like I’m falling apart, dissolving, just crumbling to the ground that exists just as much as me – it doesn’t.
I have words in my head, in my mouth, on my tongue, I can taste the desperation they are filled with. But if I take a closer look, there are no words. Just mere concepts that will never find their way out of this foreign place. And when I listen, I hear nothing, and it’s so loud that it hurts, it hurts so much that I can’t feel it. I hear the nothing of more voices in my head. 3, 17, 39, 52.5 voices in my head. Each with a name. A story. A personality. With intention and purpose that lies beyond my understanding, just out of reach, off grounds. They aren’t quieter like all the sensations and smells and tastes and sighs. They are clearer, if anything at all. But just as out of control as always. What is always? In here, always is never and never is sometimes. And sometimes might be often, or it might be rarely, but it definitely is.
Like me.
With just as much intention.

That word means a lot in here. It’s here often. Which might be always and which might be never. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s not for me to decide.

But what is here? It’s there and there, on top of that, next to this, under those, behind these. Here seems to be a complicated thing. Time feels strange. Odd. Weird. But so self-evidently normal that it doesn’t feel at all.
Eventually I notice that I can think. Slowly. Carefully. Hesitantly.
Like my thoughts are moving through honey. Sticky and heavy.
The thoughts never reach the point at which they could be considered of being thought or having been thought.And once again the universe seems to hate me particularly much.