In Limbo...

I feel myself vanishing. This morning around three, I awoke and felt like a ghost. It reminded me of my old composition notebooks. I felt like an erased pencil mark—still visible as an indentation. Am I that? Am I nothing more than my own footprint in a time that has already passed? Because I do not feel real. I do not feel solid.

I feel like a billboard—existing only to consume. A real life feels like a dream. Will this journey ever congeal? Will it ever provide a sensation of authenticity?

When time ends and looks back upon itself, will I be there or will I just be a painting on its wall?




[Relevant Link: http://artisticthings.com/]