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What is a statement? Words aren't real. Time doesn't exist.
Things never begin.
It does not need for names. It does not need for faces. That is the stranger's business. It is only that which is not, the madness of knowing nothing. Nothing is made of everything and is therefore, everywhere. No thing can be without the existence of nothing. Names are nonsense, sounds put together to be recognisable. It can mimic those sounds the best it can, but it will never be quite right.
So, how would you feel if you came into being? With a face and a name, all of which are not yours but must remain as you? It does not need of these things, and yet it is. It isn't and it was and it won't be and it eternally will.
It is Michael, not a person. It was never a person. All the bones in it's hands are heavy, very heavy, and when it breathes, lightning fractals in the sky.
You don't remember why you came into this room. You are sure it was for something, you just have to think. The room is dirty and disorganized, things placed around everything. It smells of something stale, and so you start to organize. But oh, you need a container for all of this, you should go get one. You don't remember why you came into this room. There is something burning in the oven, and you need to get it out, but all your dish towels are dirty. It's alright, you did laundry, you'll just go get one. You don't remember why you came into this room. The washing machine finished a long time ago, and the clothes have started to smell gross. It's okay, you can just put more soap in and turn it back on. And while you are here, you can take the laundry out of the dryer, you just need to fetch the basket. You don't remember why you came into this room.
It does not want or need, it just is. Or it was. The thing that might have been Michael once makes things confusing, in a bad way. It has wants sometimes, needs for feeding. It is wrong.
It remembers sometimes. Faint echos of memories long gone. A warm hug, a friendly smile. It hates those the most. It will rip and tear at it's forced body until it is nothing but fractals and spirals. It will tighten it's halls around itself until it forgets to breathe, because it does not need to.
The being that it used to be is not it, it refuses. How would you feel if you grew extra limbs and a face, and they all had a mind and voice of it's own?
To be is to live, and to live means to die. It does not die. For every mind must fall to the cycle of madness at death, cry out for people who are no longer there. It does not know people, it is not people.
It is madness and lies. It will not become mad and lie to itself.
It is a door. A hallway. A room you used to know. Warped and impossible, but exactly how you remember it being from the faint memories that are lying to you. To remember a memory is to warp it further, and it will keep you there in the room to remember and remember and remember and remember and remember and remember and remember until there is nothing but static and wraped shapes and noises you do not know and the room swallows you.
And yet it has a name and a face and memories to remember and it hates it hates it hates it hates it hates it. It does not need skin that feels wrong and it does not need hands full of bone. It does not need hair that tangles and curls and moves, it does not need a voice that cries and lies and shouts.
It is Michael, and it hates and goes mad. It remembers and lies to itself. What is the use of a maze, if the maze gets lost in the maze that it is.
The hallway is long, with a turn to the left at the end, and a sign pointing to the exit above it. There are posters on the walls, or are they windows? Your eyes can't focus. You turn left, and there's a long hallway, with a left turn at the end, with mirrors that warp and bend. Or are they paintings? You turn left, and there's a long hallway with a left turn at the end, with large screen displays on the walls. Or are they abstract art pieces? You turn left, and there's a long hallway, and there is a left turn at the end.
It is an empty house. A crawlspace tucked away holding memories. It is not a she called Helen.
To have gender is to have an identity. It is not a she or a he or a they or a mother or friend or lover. It can pretend, but it is not. To be is to have identity and it is not that. To pretend is to lie, and it loves pretending.
Your dreams are mundane. The people you tell this to say they envy you, but they don't know the curse of it. To dream of the mundane means to get confused with reality. But you don't get confused, do you? You can be sure of your reality, because of the reality checks you have started to do. Wake up. The clock is moving right. Is it? People walk backwards and stand on their hands. That's normal. Wake up. Your work is making you work a double shift again. It's okay, you've done it a lot before, you can do it again. Wake up. Your hands cannot hold things, your arms are static. Lights move and pulse. You wake up as a car hits you. The clock is working fine. Is it?
It rips out it's hair as it cries over things it isn't. It does not remember lovers because it never loved or was loved. It's tunnel floods with tears it does not shed because it has no eyes. It isn't Michael and it isn't Helen, it was never meant to be.
It is a white lie, a twisted truth. The fear of your memory failing through the years. The fear of not being sure if that has been there the whole time. You miss so much every day, the brain filters out so much because it is all just visual noise. When is it that something becomes important enough for it to be seen through the mess of colors?
It does not concern itself with time or language or identity or existing, because it is not and was not and never will be. It is and was and will become. Becoming nothing. Nothing becoming.
It used the being it is not and hates to feed itself. An abstract hand. But hands do not need to be conscious.
It is a strange reflection, a feeling of something being wrong but not sure if it is. Was it? Could there be? What if you're wrong. You're wrong and stupid for thinking there is something wrong, you always are. Nothing has ever been wrong and you should know that by now. You are stupid and crazy for even thinking that. If something was wrong you would know, but you are crazy because you think that you aren't crazy.
It does not like it's being. It does not exist. It hates when it's mouth speaks saying “I„, because it is not an individual. It is the doors and the mirrors and the paintings and the hallways and the reflections and the spirals and the empty houses and the fractals. It is not an (Eye).
There is no need for knowledge because knowledge is all a lie. When will knowing save you? All that you should know is that nothing is real and you can't trust anyone.
Just a quick trip downstairs to get something. It's late, you should sleep. It won't take long. Have the stairs always been this long? You're just tired. You should sleep more. Keep going, you can light a smoke outside. But you weren't going outside, were you? What were you doing? Maybe a glass of water will help. The kitchen is downstairs, so you keep going down. You're so tired, you can barely keep your eyes open. You really need to sleep more. Your foot trips over nothing because nothing is on the stairs, and you fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall until all you are is scattered on the stairs. You should sleep more.
It does not fear it's undoing because it is the undoing. It never was and always will be.
Salutations.