On Existence

Detachment is an art. Being able to turn yourself off and block out the world takes skill. It is why I love movies. If I play them loud enough, I cannot hear this world. If I stare at the screen, I cannot see this world. If I hold myself tight like I wish someone else would, I cannot feel this world. What I cannot sense surely must not exist in my state of forced ignorance, so this reality fades away. I can't feel the end approaching or hear his lack of speaking and listening and caring as he breathes heavily in his sleep. I cannot see my phone that won't ring. You've blown me off yet again. I cannot sense the tears pouring down my cheeks in all my glorious abandonment, so they do not exist. It's not like I cared anyway. I didn't really want to be happy. I was just joking. Denial, another tool of detachment. Giving up, the perfect way to tear yourself from your sense of existence. That is the plan and I'm sticking to it. I'm alone and soon I will lose what little I had left. Goodnight.