Since I was young I always considered myself a spectator of sorts. Never fully experiencing life, but instead analyzing it, predicting it, from the outside. Objective accounts. I felt distant. Isolated. Lonely.
This past December I saw myself, or a self from the eyes of a broken self.
Here I am, a vision of me lying but my consciousness not fixed in any location as one might fix their sense of place with where they can see with their eyes like when I write down these words and see me as the typist.
Instead, my self was fragmented. This was not the first time. It was a space I had become all to familiar with. The mad man.
But I was lost. A place I had always been striving to get to, but in so getting, realizing that it was very much like death. Death of my ego, my judge.
In such a state unable to communicate, to participate, to love.
Just able to be lost.
I am running. Back and forth and I catch glimpses of this face that reminds me of something. Suddenly I am Cal and my face, there, as a reminder that the Fugue does exist and there is something worth living for. Come back is what it was saying. Come back.
That time, I did.