A formal feeling.
There are lonely places on the eaves of indecision–quiet, dark spots where I live most of my life. Paths are like houses and I sit on the roofs, dithering, contemplating, not sure if I should move. I jumped off a roof once and didn’t break a bone, but when I think about it now, I’m not sure how I did it.
Real challenges take forms unpredictable and unknowable. Blindsided– (that’s what they say)– you’ll never know what’s going to hit you until it’s hit. But my mind dwells on the big, black thoughts that most people never encounter. I can’t help but feel I know how the rush of horror will hit me; I live it every day, in tiny forms, little pieces of the fears creeping out and wreaking havoc on my consciousness. Living life afraid is not hard, but it’s certainly not easy — I feel I’m getting smaller with age, shrinking slowly, curling up like a baby mouse or a cotton ball. Something warm and soft and easy to destroy.
— Lately, I’ve learned I can cry on command. When you dig into the dark places, your walls get thinner, your house starts to dissolve. Disappear —
My guard is lowered and I can shatter more easily, the longer I’ve been in the world–
(it wears down on you, I suppose). And I shrink with the pressure and I think I will dissolve with the thinning walls.
Disappear into the dark holes I burrow.
Next time, I will jump and my bones, like clay, will bend in and lose shape. My form will soften slowly until it sinks into the ground. And there I will be — though not me, anymore — a stranger to myself, my self.