I journal all hours of the night piecing together what I have come to know as my confessional fragmented stream of consciousness. Writing isnâ€™t going to save me- Iâ€™m not one to be saved. But I canâ€™t help catch myself meticulously talking to the dead. And foolishly pretending someone is talking back. I do hear things- something- I hear freedom- I want to be free- I need to be free- I was taught that freedom is good- but what could potentially become of us once we are free? Alas, the unanswerable question feeding and slithering in my brain like a parasite.