voices in my head

I keep having this recurring nightmare, cutting myself open, with the sharpest blade. My face and my arms. It is not a pretty sight, but simultaneously so calm and soothing. I keep thinking about it throughout the day, trying to find out the meaning behind it. The visual keeps popping up in my head, how blood, red as wine kept flowing out of the slits smoothly. I tried to taste it in my dream but woke up just before I brought it to my tongue. I feel like buying a typewriter, and typing out hundreds of words, and then burning those papers. I want to write about grief. About loneliness, and the dark dampness of winter. About mothers, and fathers. About crippling anxiety, and the labyrinth of adulthood. About how your world becomes less and less wide as you grow up. About the helplessness of it all. About the hopelessness of it all. About the pointlessness of it all.  I have become emotionally numb like never before. It feels like a dam of tears spurring and stuck inside of me. Unattended