Behind A Wall Of Glass

I stand behind this wall of glass
looking in on my life;
it doesn't feel real,
it doesn't look real,
is this really my own?
Is this myself?
Are these my actions?
I can't tell anymore...

Detachement has become my middle name,
echoes of words ring in my ears,
scattered thoughts run rampant through scattered mind,
shattered perceptions breed disdain.

Laughter cannot touch me;
everything is suddenly so insignificant;
not as if I have gotten larger,
but rather as if the world has shrunken down,
and I am the only one who realizes that everything is different.

A breeze touches my cheek
and it takes me a while to feel the cold;
the touch of warm skin,
a kiss on my brow,
registers slowly;
simple pleasures --
the petting of a loving animal,
the taste of warm, sweet candy --
mean less than nothing.

If I could feel my lungs,
if I could control my tongue,
I would scream my way into oblivion...

But part of hell is never knowing
if that's really where you are
and never realizing
that you're gone...

Either this lasts forever
and I lose all sense of time
all sense of mind and self,
or it ends
and I forget it ever existed
too painful to recall...