Being a Zombie

Were I sane, I probably wouldn't write this. Were I insane, I would be incapable of doing so. This is the logic. It is also the conundrum. Exacerbating my quest are the people with whom I cannot communicate. I speak to them, and they don't seem to even hear me. If they do, they pretend not to do so. Or, possibly, they don't know they're hearing me at all.

It's like the tiny cuts you find on your body. The ones so small they're barely noticeable, until you catch a glimpse of them as you disrobe at night. Then, to your surprise, you notice your blood has been drawn in a tiny amount. The insignificant scratch could have been caused by any number of things, but is wholly responsible for blood leaving your body, even if only in a minuscule amount. The words draw blood.

I feel them. Capriciously inundating my senses. You've been cut and bled out. You're dead. You don't know you and you can't argue, because you don't know if it's true or not. They are there, though, slowly slicing away at your subconscious, eliciting new thoughts in your mind as they sever synaptic impulse. Mind careens into unsolicited thought. Facial muscles cringe... Will disappears.