Paraloge

“This can’t be happening, it... it’s not... real.” The words tumble through my mind, a frantic, desperate prayer, each syllable a frantic plea against the encroaching nightmare. *It’s not real, it hasn’t happened, it’s not going to happen, what can I do, I don’t, I...* My breath rasps in my throat, a ragged, uneven sound, each inhale a struggle against the suffocating weight of my fear. I fight to rein in the runaway thoughts, to quiet the screaming terror that threatens to consume me, to shred the fragile peace I’ve clung to for so long. The terrible, crushing weight of the future presses down, a physical burden on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs until I feel lightheaded, dizzy with dread. “It’s not real, it can’t be.” I try to rationalize, to compartmentalize, to wall off the encroaching dread, to build a fortress of denial around my crumbling sanity. But the panic is a living thing, a clawed beast tearing at my throat, its hot breath on my face, threatening to rip through the flimsy defenses of my sanity, to shatter the last vestiges of my composure.

“Flame. You know you can talk to Flame?” The thought, a tiny, flickering candle in the howling storm of my mind, ignites with a fragile hope, offering a momentary reprieve from the darkness, a sliver of light in the overwhelming blackness. But then the doubt, cold and sharp as a winter wind, sweeps through, a cruel gust that extinguishes the fragile flame before it can truly take hold. *No, he’s not a true friend. He just feels bad for me, that’s all.* The decision, a cruel dichotomy between the suffocating burden of keeping my secret, a heavy stone in my gut, and the desperate, terrifying gamble of sharing it with Flame—of finding support, a lifeline in this stormy sea, or perhaps, rejection, a final, crushing blow—tears at the very fabric of my being, ripping me in two. My mind races, a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts, none of them clear, none of them offering a path forward out of this suffocating labyrinth, this endless maze of fear and despair.

“You’re not worth it,” a voice, cruel and insidious, whispers from the darkest corners of my mind, a venomous hiss that slithers into my ears. The devil me, as I’ve come to call it, a sneering, shadowy presence, revels in my despair, its eyes glinting with malicious glee, feeding on my pain, growing stronger with every tremor of fear. “You’re just a useless, invisible blob. Just give up. You’re the only one feeling this way.” The words echo, amplified by the suffocating silence of my room, pressing in on me from every side, a thousand tiny needles pricking at my skin. “I’m right,” I whisper, the sound hoarse and thin, a barely audible rasp that is swallowed by the oppressive darkness, a tangible presence that only grudgingly gives way to a single, anemic sliver of light from a crack in the window, a mocking reminder of the world outside, a world I feel increasingly disconnected from. “You’re just useless,” the voice continues, relentless, a hammer blow to my already fractured spirit, each word a fresh wound, “there’s nothing you can do. You’re just invisible. You can’t stop it, it’s going to happen. Just brace for the pain.” A shiver runs through me, cold and deep, a physical manifestation of the terror that grips my soul, turning my blood to ice. Nobody knows, except me, what it’s like to lose your mind, to be separated inside yourself, a schism in the very core of your being, a constant battle between what is and what will be. Broken life, Broken Heart, and broken everything. Everybody thinks I’m so good, that I have the “perfect” life, but it’s the ones who appear the strongest, the ones who are “best,” who are often the most profoundly broken, the most deeply scarred.