I can’t think for all the silence yet can’t talk for all the shouting, this constant echo ends with only myself that is doubting. Rounding the corners of the mortal coil it doubts my own existence, unable to shake the apathy it breeds with a rather cursed persistence.
It scratches it gouges it wounds my very mind, causing the coils of thought and sanity to become disturbed, unwind. I feel myself unmade, i see myself undone, and I have to wonder in the first place, when this even begun. When did I exist? Was it ever real? The doubt inside spirals away, disbelief shadows everything, all that I see and feel.