I wrote this as a story.

Is it a story now?
I don't know.
I don't think so.

I see things that aren't there. I'm alone, and my phone glitches out, I hear my name called over and over into my ear.
I have urges.
I don't know why, but I do. And to say the least, they feel pleasant, but they're not.

I don't know what I did.
I don't know how this happened.
But somehow, nothing is following me.
Im following myself and I'm my own monster, but my mind has never seemed to grasp that fact. Oblivious I lay, and then I suppose just one day, somehow, everything shatters.

I was doing good for the past few days, no incidents. Sitting in the dark at my computer, alone, at twelve at night, I suppose I was just vulnerable to myself and my paranoia and my mind.

Now I'm laying in bed, and I don't know how I got here. And hour has passed, and I have no clue as to what had occured in the time something else took control.
Who knows- maybe I did nothing at all.

Maybe I just embraced the fact that temporarily, I was free.