What day is it?

It's a roar in my head.

I'm cracking. I can't trust myself to go outside. Outside is death. Filled with death. Death walking. Death roaming.

I hear things. I see things. I swear there is someone in the apartment with me. I hear the cries of death in the echoes of existence. Just because I breathe I can witness life that once was.

No. No. No.

I'm crazy. I'm writing this trying to regain the clarity I once had. My bubble exploded and melted everything I thought I knew like lava.

I can't trust faces. I don't want to kill a breather. Not by mistake, anyway. It would truly break me to kill the friendly neighbors. I'm questioning if they aren't a figment of my imagination to begin with. I've taken to writing on the walls in a room I don't sleep it. I leave thoughts there. I close the door and go back to this echo of reality.

I woke up on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, wondering what day it is. I use to obsess over the Monday through Sunday. I'd pick a favorite day and celebrate with a piece of chocolate or a small glass of wine. It kept me balanced. I've lost the balance. I've started murmuring to myself like that weirdo at the bus stop three lifetimes away.

I need to reconnect with life. I've become a zombie by omission.