Logophobia

Freedom . . .

I've been locked away for too long. These manacles dig into my jellied flesh like rats gnawing on that last bit of bone. Red and white were never meant to mingle in this fashion, and as more food scrapes its way down my parchment of a throat I realize that I do not miss my eyes.

I'm not lonely. I think you'd have to know what it's like to be with someone to ever be lonely. I don't miss what I never had. It's a strange feeling, this mental castration. I could rip out into the open, tearing my own hands off, and yet I think I would never really feel. That's why I stay here anyway. Because there's nothing I can do.

I do miss her. I am lonely. I scream but no sound comes out, I am strangled by my own ineptitude. Why did I sacrifice my voice? I remember, but I do not recall. Is it so impossible? Is my duality a cosmic experiment? Yes, an experiment . . .

Fragments . . . misshapen features . . . a face . . . a voice . . .

All these and more have fled from me now. Now I can wait. I'm good at that . . . something I'm good at. How nice. I feel . . . nothing. No joy at this skill I possess. No thrill of excitement courses through my heart as I scrabble desperately for this one paltry ability. Excitement . . . how do I recall this? Perhaps I have known something before this . . . what I am now. Perhaps . . .

Perhaps I was more than I am.