Prose from Today

I am not sane.
I am thinking of locking myself in a box.
A clear box.
A box in which I am naked, and alone.
Being exposed is fine,
   as long as no one can touch me. No one can talk to me.

Stop calling me.

Stop persuading me.

I can trust no one, and why?
Simply because no one else cares for me.
           I care for me.
Other people construe their right, their right to expand their boundary
     of care for self, overstepping their line and mine, to beg for my self-care.
As if they had none.
But they have some, and want more.

What is the middle, besides a constant struggle,
    to care,
    to not care,

    to move closer,
    to move away?
This thought isn't sane; sane people don't think about this.

The clockwork of the brain,
                        driving me insane.

My suffering is in thought, it's in my head, but without my head,

                                       
                                                                                              I am, again, stranded on a sea
                                                                                                of other people's ambitions.