its called delusions
we are just delusions in the schizophrenic mind scheme. we feel real, we think, we act, but how do we know? how do we really know we exist? delusions believe themselves to be reality and who are we to decide for them? whats wrong with different realities?
these things i think while im waiting for my chance to come to the front. to experience reality through her eyes. she sees things so differently from me. its all bathed in light and color, and it makes me content. i feel serene when im in control, when i can see what she says, when i can think what she thinks.
im free to choose, to eat, to drink, to fuck. free to leave this room with four walls. free to ignore the screams and yells coming from the rooms around me. i never see them, but i feel their presence. i know they are there, and they are as real and as delusional as i. we believe ourselves to be omnipotent and beautiful and smart, when the truth is we are horrid terrible creatures. if we werent, why would i be here? why would they lock me away from society? why cant they see MY genious? MY beauty? they classify me, drug me and lock me away, ignoring the sins of our forfathers. they ignore what they do not understand, what they cannot comprehend. how is my community different?
walls again, gone is the beauty, the colors. nothing but walls now. brick red with blood streaming down. she hurt herself again. but it wasnt her, it was one of them. one of the screamers. blood always flows when she hurts. it collects in a puddle near my feet. i back away but somehow i feel the pain. i feel what she feels. she needs me again.
when im there, the pain goes away. i wipe the cut, and bandage it, not knowing who or how it got there. blood on the porceline brings screams once again to my ears, and i dissapear, into my room of four walls, waiting until the pain gets to great.

You know, that is a really good concept.

In Philosophy, I was in charge of a debate. While the others argued for Theism and Atheism, I argued for Agnosticism.

I asked: how do we know we are even real? How do we even know what we feel or think is real? Is there any all encompassing, inherent proof that we actually exist?

That is the great uncertainty there.

What I like about your passage in particular is the beginning. You have that uncertainty, the uncertainty inherent in what is called "reality" right there. As you move on, this phrase takes it all (in my opinion):

quote:

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delusions believe themselves to be reality and who are we to decide for them? whats wrong with different realities?

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It really makes you wonder as the scenario continues who or what the narrator really is. Is it a persona of this woman? A multiple personality? A Jungian archetype?

Uncertainty (particularly this immediate, harsh uncertainity you make with some of the vocabulary and the images), leaves the way for an "open" story ... where more than one metaphoric interpretation of it and its reality is possible.

..... Well, I think I've said enough. Feel kind of embarrassed actually, making a "review" and all. I hope I did something useful and didn't pontificate too much.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: Mythos,

i havent decided really where i want it to go....but its a really good suggestion
thanks babe!

It's a strong bit of writing. Do continue with it.

Oh! And check your email - I have a small question for you.

You're welcome, brokengrrl.

Anytime.