I told you, but you still wouldn't know. And - were you able to have understood - the shameful is deep and devastating. frankly, It's something I myself barely understand when I do but don't, seen only out of the corner of my minds. See, I am out of time with sync.
(I told you you wouldn't understand, you.)
You're not getting the real me, even as I type this. You're only getting me of the past. It's only a few seconds gap but anything greater than zero is an issue, size of the gap only determines the amount of agony (and danger). So what's created is what I call a hollow-graphic image of myself to interact with the world. On the inside, I'm constantly biting my nails hoping people buy the bullshit they see.
If all this sounds like a major pain in the ass, it is. I'm consuming enormous amounts of energy and holding together the two me's between this rip in time is painful in the extreme. I say something funny and everyone laughs. But I'm holding on by my fingernails, the real me screaming, "Kill me now!"
I don't know how to get synced back up. I've spent years and years and years wrestling with this. My theory is this is not something actually done, but rather to let happen.
You may be wondering how this happened to begin with. It happened when I pulled the plug on reality, so to speak, things just weren't working for me. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but frustration boiled over into irrational thinking. It was a way for people to un-see me. Only now, I can't get back.
During this typing itself is much hard as my mind sync out sync and present mind me race ahead and out-of-sync past mind me forget what it's supposed to type, who I really am, sometimes for better sometimes for worse, cheating my love.
Praise is a difficult thing in this state. What are they really praising? Not me! Just the hollow-gram. It does make me realize that if I were able to sync back, I could have some genuine praise coming my way. Of course, that would make any criticism just as genuine too.
The unspoken fear is there's no way back. But I don't believe that. I do highly suspect, though, there's a high price to getting back. The universe doesn't suffer fools who refuse its gifts.
(I told you you wouldn't understand, you.)
You're not getting the real me, even as I type this. You're only getting me of the past. It's only a few seconds gap but anything greater than zero is an issue, size of the gap only determines the amount of agony (and danger). So what's created is what I call a hollow-graphic image of myself to interact with the world. On the inside, I'm constantly biting my nails hoping people buy the bullshit they see.
If all this sounds like a major pain in the ass, it is. I'm consuming enormous amounts of energy and holding together the two me's between this rip in time is painful in the extreme. I say something funny and everyone laughs. But I'm holding on by my fingernails, the real me screaming, "Kill me now!"
I don't know how to get synced back up. I've spent years and years and years wrestling with this. My theory is this is not something actually done, but rather to let happen.
During this typing itself is much hard as my mind sync out sync and present mind me race ahead and out-of-sync past mind me forget what it's supposed to type, who I really am, sometimes for better sometimes for worse, cheating my love.
Praise is a difficult thing in this state. What are they really praising? Not me! Just the hollow-gram. It does make me realize that if I were able to sync back, I could have some genuine praise coming my way. Of course, that would make any criticism just as genuine too.
The unspoken fear is there's no way back. But I don't believe that. I do highly suspect, though, there's a high price to getting back. The universe doesn't suffer fools who refuse its gifts.
There, so now I've told you - but have I? Only hollow-gram me interacts with the world. And, like always, seekers of the truth are rare anyway.
I do have real love? I feed the hollow-gram so everyone can know. But they know the hollow-gram isn't real (the entirety of my life depends on the kindness of others' suspension of disbelief) and thus no one knows. 'Tis a very scary place, not knowing. I live in fear. (Then she left me for someone who does not)
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