Sleep Spell
Leo Driver
I can no longer tell what is real and what is fake anymore.
Am I even asleep right now, or am I awake? Am I looking at you,
оr a m i r r o r?
My life was relatively normal for the first 14 years. What went wrong? I barely nemember now. All I know is that it hurt.
Now here I am—or there? Everywhere? I don’t know if I’m myself or just another idea in someone else’s head.
I feel like I’m scattered as if my body is nothing more than words on a blank page.
My head someone’s rough sketch. I can’t hear anything but a loud whirring where my ears should be, static flows out of my eyes.
“Doctor, I can’t tell what is the real me!” I cry to a mannequin across from me. No, a dog—me? Am I talking to me?
But none of these questions will ever be answered. God, someone kill me, anyone at all. I can’t keep living like this.
How many dreams and days must I endure? How many lives will I live until I KNOW which one is real? Which one is ME?
Help Me.
Help Me.
HELP ME GODDAMN IT! DO YOU EVEN HEAR ME?!
Oh. You’re not real either, why else would you have a turnip for a head… I’ve always hated turnips—I think.
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