She lied to me. Twenty years and no damn mention. Just a big fucking lie, a big, meaningless life birthed from this illusion. That woman isn't my mother, just some broad who found me at one of those adoption homes. I remember it in goddamn high definition. Caverns, endless in creation, almost alien in nature. The further I venture, the less it seems that things keep their structure. Suddenly, a left turn leads me into a Wal-Mart. I look back, the entirety of the realm I was in was nowhere to be found. Just little ol' me. I wandered for hours, looking for someone. And I remember one more thing. A pain, a pain that feels identical to what I'm feeling now. I blacked out, but I remember my "mom's" voice. Calming, soothing, but just another deception. They adopted me the second I awoke, two months later. She said she never bought me the journal, she said she never knew I had one like the one I found. But I know there's something she refused to tell me, I know damn well.
My headache's getting better, but at the price of knowing the majority of my life is fabricated bullshit. Purpose. I'm beginning to despise that word. It just lingers over me, an obvious prize I can't obtain. I'm sick of these kinds of lies, I'm sick of feeling useless, I'm sick of they who continue to fabricate the world I live in. I want bloody reality, I want to remember when I wasn't a cesspool of naivety. I need to get back.
My phone's ringing, but it's not my so-called mother. It's just an unnamed number. Give me a second.
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