Erasing Time

Don't ask me what I did two days ago, I wouldn't even recall being alive.

Why aren't you writing?

Why does anything I write even matter?
Isn't it all repeated garbage in the end?

When I don't write, I don't live.
Simply put, I must write.
Something, anything...
ramblings grammatically correct or incoherent jive.

Why am I erasing my own existence?
Apathy is dangerous...
Worse it only hurts the ones I love.

My own words mean little to myself now.
Fear is dangerous...

What was I doing?
What did you say?

I sit in a room full of people, satisfied enough to be near living things.
I enjoy watching and listening.
Sadly daydreaming with people around seems to cause them to feel like they don't exist.

When did my opinion start to matter to others?
When did my presence start to matter so much?
I am there but not there.
Am I the ghost or are they?

Am I selfishly lost in my own world?

Yes...