It's this terrible feeling of being dead but your physical sense doesn't seem to reflect that. The other day you told me to conquer my fear. When one day you read of the characters in my head, you will see them as what I want to be. I hope I can show the melancholy and sometimes restless torment inside my head and make it beautiful. Being in control of these people in my head who know take such realistic forms, its hard remind myself they aren't actually there. These versions of who I'd like to be. Always at the back of my head is the fact that I control them. It comes as an epiphany almost, when these beings act of their own accord. They've become these shifted versions of myself. What started out as a person I so longed to be instead of me, is now nearly alive. I feel I live so much through them. They may not be present in a physical sense but then I've never felt I am physical.
So much, most, of who I am is not in the physical. And it's when I started to live only through my physical presence that I felt my death. Essentially what I did was force myself into something I've never been. And it was what I wrote yesterday, or what I write at all that resuscitated me. Slowly being brought back to my shifted self. Not back completely.
But it feels I'm being hauled in a fireman's lift by someone I wrote. Slowly with every step the breath is easier, but I am heavy and slips will happen.
So I guess if this was a Panchatantra comic the moral would be that I tried living in the moment and being present in the now and that the now isn't mine to be in. I don't live in the now... I live in songs that echo in the mountains of the treachery I did, I live in that monastery on the side of a stone cliff, I live as a monk saving my friends and burying another, I live as an winged person sent to accompany humans.
Mine is not the present and I wonder why I ever thought it was.