I grew up believing I can only resolve problems in my dreams because I created problems in actuality. The only trouble I tried to disentangle was a person. Repairing who they were in my mind, I only constructed my own problem. They had to originate from me. I was in charge of designing who they would be, like playing dollhouse, I never awarded them a chance to be themselves. I was gifted to bestow troubles instead of stress over them. Although, I've never understood how humans cling on to eachother like leeches then forget like old reciepts. How sentimental your "whole ball of wax can be". Scribbling stories in wee little journals only to find them sodden on the street. How docile and ripe the word "friend" can be. Everything used to be so lively and now my chest feels like an abandoned amusement park. And now my affection has sunk into my stomach and a strange woman is feeding me saltines. She pities, "Chaos, you're a delicate cheese, rotting but sensitive." I'd rather have maggots converse with me. I never realized how posessive I could be. But maybe possession wasn't bad news. The shadows nearing when you're sickly minded. Maybe, they just presume you need a friend and yearn to be close. So close you transform into one person. I've prevailed many posessions then, but now they cause their own problems.