Sensations

Will I ever feel the sensation of holding onto a balloon, craving for the Moon?
I was 9 years old- still unconscious of wonders universe beholds and hell behind one's eyes that threatened to break loose and swallow the Earth as I knew it, in one Sinatra's 'Bang'. That bullet would shoot me right through the heart and make my once royal blue perception of the world covered in war-blooded red; I guess that's why I dyed my hair purple.
Even so, it never ceased to happen- I motionlessly kept witnessing violent urges evolving into acts of delight in a blink of my eye (I cannot describe how I wished to go blind) and inhaling thin air with the scent of dread, causing my heartstrings to weep Beethoven's winter, though I yelled from the bottom of my lungs it was spring. I was then a half written book, one a writer never had intention of finishing, which is probably why I felt unspoken, undone, un-myself-like and leaving people ponder upon. I witnessed non-existent personalities and disorders, and I was living everyone's life apart from my own. I so badly wanted to end myself and close the chapter as it was, but never admitted to myself that I was only a creation, and never a creator. I desperately wished to feel, so I became a daydream, as nothingness laughed at me- life reappearing as I closed my eyes and only until I woke up. That was the past why for now's mistrust.
But it was always me to blame, for it was my own hand hitting me, mouth spitting on my reflection of someone else, eyes never used to life, tucked away in sickness and belief in whispers of epitaphs.
I wondered why he once thought of me as a see-through mist, and the his whisper still echoes throughout my already wrecked existence ('I was struck by you as a whole I've never been myself, but at glance mistaken thinking you'll blur your sight if I pass through your life as whoever you'd wanted me to be, as our mind notices what our eyes don't'). And even under no sunlight, therefore no trace of time flowing, having fallen wholeheartedly into a cloud of unknown pleasures, you feel as if it was my first time not trying to win the race with it, but holding its hand and stopping life for a while. Only until someone yelled 'run'.
I was nine when I started noticing dirt on people's hands, and I thought to myself how I never want my skin to become an abundance of scars, sewed together as to keep the light from leaking out, and leave me in the dark. Alas, my body being home for all worlds poisonous things, I was from head to toes sickly shining. Chemical reactions occurring made me decisively remind myself to 'run' whenever I felt my legs weakened by allurement- at least until I stop feeling like a city deserted by an atomic bomb. Or a bomb itself.