I don't really know what it is, and I'm afraid to mess with it. It could be positive? It could be something else altogether. All I know is it's making me too small to do anything, anything at all. So I sit and drink my coffee and type on my computer, attempting to make sense of the universe, a dent in my head. Is it sentient? If so who sent it? Should I just accept the law of the greatest insult that could be given a Megan, the law that says you can't do anything?
I have been dealing with a lot of fear lately. I've been hiding behind closed walls from this fear, but it is outside and ravenous. I am afraid of fear. I feel safe, for now, but I know once these walls are down, the fear will pour in like the ocean wall of water breaking a dike. Who will I be? What will I resort to, to keep a shred of identity after fear eats away at the fragile ego I have created within?
My back aches. I have been bent, crooked. Maimed, almost. Deformed, definitely.
I refuse to perform self-care. Exercise, showering and cleaning all go down before my own demand for love, un-given. I seem to create a vacuum shaped "Megan's Love." Love for myself, which I must fill before feeling whole.
And yet, I don't follow the love, I follow myself: into the dark alleyway of words.
I still have no motivation or ability to succeed even at simple tasks. The greatness desires my death. How long can I live off shreds of ability of the others around me. I have nothing better to do than complain. To complain is easy, to tickle the keys, jiggle the fingers. They almost think for me, the clever, torrent of mind on hands.
My tormentor claims to be a friend, but I believe him not. He is brown like a berry in the sun. I let him go, and he persists, I follow him and he desists. This is no ordinary game of cat and mouse.
The tasks are simple: Do the dishes, take a shower. In my flesh, I rebel.
Then I am freed to do whatever I want. I rebel a second time. I wish to do nothing, after the agony which was inflicted upon me. The wounding parties may have realized their wrong, but the outward fear and inner injustice remain.
Hate pours out of my pores. I continue to complain, albeit that I am slightly comfortable now. I must be a perfect sacrifice for the nightly feeding. This is just my home habit.
I look up at my inspiration board. "To fight BOREDOM. Gaming to Save you from BRAIN STARVATION." I only play games I can win. Is that a game at all?
Hyped on stimulants, neck bared, the muscles protruding, and bending, the veins pumping blue blood, thyroid and lymph nodes, bulging around segments of bone. The gristle of voice box and esophagus hiding shrouded, still, in spirit. Perhaps these are the final walls.
I need to submit to my sensible lists of things to do. They were written in sense and love for me and others. My children rebel, do something that get's grandpa's attention, he left them at the post office again, they leaning like green fronds in a dark spot, towards the light. Like letters to Santa, they scrape the edges of a special bin, the letters to imaginary hopes and dreams, which would come true, but the cost of such dreams is a loneliness, a stretched love, a stretched imagination.
Lovely dears. I can't wait to meet them.
My tormenter again decides that I've made a wrong choice, a choice I've been hiding because I am ashamed, confused, and blindly striking out. Short sighted, my choices are his glasses of sharp vision and sudden death, or a look at my own nose as the only thing I can see in this matter.
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