Paintings will sleep on the floor.
Build walls of lonely dreams as beauty fades.
I can't take this anymore.
While the experience of being unsure who or where I am is, in my experience, a grossly unpleasant one, there is a far worse experience that I've had on occasion. Every now and then, especially if my radio somehow shuts off at night, I will die.
The sudden shock of not having any interests, or fears, or feelings is jarring, especially so because of the extreme sensory overload that accompanies this death each time it happens. Every individual sound becomes a scream, and the barest light melts my eyes from their sockets. My sheets shred across my skin, combining the worst parts of sandpaper and powdered glass. This pain is amplified a thousand times, until my brain finally figures out where the gap or whatever is.
While the pain may always stop, it also robs me of what makes me myself. The fact that I'm still Richard is there, but I might as well be any other person, because Richard holds no context by itself. What Richard loves, what Richard hates, and what Richard wants is all lost to me, and it takes a bit of time to decide what Richard wants now that the pain is gone.
Usually, what Richard wants after these moments is for the pain and sound to never come back.
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