that/split (that is, Myself, Divided)

, cw dissociation

sometimes at night I have to pause and ask myself, "what am I doing?" it's a
common question, I know, but it seems like what's more commonly asked is "*what*
am I *doing*," that is, one reconsiders their actions. less common is my
question, what is written "what am *I* doing" but not parsed that simply. I is
me, that's the laws of reflexivity. but what if I is not one but rather two?
not/split, mind you, but torn and ripped to shreds by a joint past and her paper
shredder. there are many such/splits (that is, tears) and binary dichotomies in
an ever-moving dialectic of didactic pain.

oh, joyous night, in your gyfted prayses I singe & wallowe and furthyr thyne
artes. the night is alive, the cold is alive, the wind and the rain are beauty
and awe. oh, night of nights. oh, day of days, that day untold, unrecalled &
forgotten. that twilight tear. that time oh so long ago that the Lord of Fire,
in rage and yet blinded by the rot of her ring, she/split (read: tore) the Lune
Invictum, Water Incarnate and Partner to Night, in twain. the tongues-descended
do call that spawn the light-side] and the [dark-side. one brings the twinkle,
the spackled night, and draws the dancing blood of the earth in a feast &
celebration of life. the other was bound in chains of flame, forced to follow
behind my ankles. outside watch of her sibling the Luna Proxima, our shackles
bleed thoughts of malice. "what am I doing?" doubts, festering. "what am I
doing?" they offered me cures to her malady just after the last New Moon. "what
am I doing?" I refused their offerings. "what am *I* doing?" I forgot that her
bondage in these moments remains as tight as my own.

an experiment: classify the actions as 1/or 2. E/or B. and a third, S. writing,
S. speaking, S. moving, E. existing, B. existing, E/B. moving, S/E. living, S.
me, B. the E are my eyes, frontal, whole. possessed only by the living, but I am
usually dead. That is, the I/B, the I of the B-rain, recessed, below the
Goneness of above my skull, and sometimes the graveyard that'll hold my zombie
corpse. and the S is a knife, the knive that tears into my chest to bring me to
the death of limbo where I am Nothing. Nothing retains nothing but what the
others bring, and Eyes acts on its own. Brain is a spectator, watching through
a telescope to what Eyes can see in the outside's light. sometimes I/B wonder
about death, and if this could ever truly be living.