to glance behind the curtain

in #writing3 years ago

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I wrote this years ago. My illness had just made itself known and I had ended another toxic relationship. For the longest time I lived in this state of suspension and emptiness but I think I might be slowly climbing out.

to glance behind the curtain


I am at my best in extreme situations. In Calm waters I sink, the wheels within fractured, rendered useless. I do not do well without tangible purpose; patterns and motion keep me alive. Without intention my failing mechanics will come to their inevitable halt.

If reality was allowed to permeate my waking rational, I would break to ground " frozen. The fragments of aspired self like sand dispersed by obscure judgement; All I am rendered illegible as the layers of illusion skinned from life’s corpse leaves trail none dares to follow.

If the quality of life is measured by happiness, mine is mere tin, maybe even lead considering the weight of my emotions and unfulfilled aspirations … function justifies existence ,mutes the guilt of surviving those wanted and loved ,dispatched by a crueler fate .

I have no concept or knowledge of personal happiness, save the echoes of a younger self’s delusions. These fickle companions like spectres haunt the occasional sequence insomnia has left untouched. Hope, spiteful virus, leaving just enough animation to keep the host alive, rejoices in my pondering.

I am guilty of pride, unable to find contentment without the compensation of point and meaning. My soul a desert, longing for the one drop that would make it a garden, denies the very existence of the once coveted.

I am of use, or expect to be -that should be enough, but it is not and I loathe myself for my arrogant sense of entitlement. Like a bird in the wake of an oil spill, night renders me immobile within the tar of self pity … eyes raised skyward , unblinking , until first rays of dawn illuminate holographic breadcrumbs. Another day projects the air of unwarranted importance.


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