7 Minutes

What makes me real? The question comes every time, every fucking time. Blurred lines like a shot of cocaine, cut down, ready to be ODed. The temptations it brings, to make a roll and sniff. Sniff motherfucker, sniff it up.

You give in, someday you do and you lose. Lose everything into that soon to end trance, like the moments while drowning, when everything is blurred and there is no weight to carry and no direction to go. Then comes the moment, the moment of fucking truth. The moment when your blood is deprived of oxygen, and your brain tells you that. You have that urge to breath and you fight, holding on to the last of moments left to fight. A fight you are meant to lose, anytime soon and for only once.

Then comes that spasm, and you lose, you lose your fucking life you were holding on to. A gush of water fills your voids not meant for it. Your every muscle, each and every single one reflexes for one last time and that is the last.

It is then the drowning starts, not in water but in your own self, in your very existence. No fear, no emotion, no inhibition, only a slow torrent of everything all at once. Everything is right there, clear and crisp reality, flowing just a handshot away, but your fucking hands have had their last shot. When every sense is closed and done for good and you are left with nothing but the last 7-minutes.

That is when you know, you were real, you WERE real. When the answer is no more needed.

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