Silence is heavier than Truth,
but softer, smoother, and easier to hold.
Truth is loud and messy,
refusing to fit neatly into place.
Truth is scary and dangerous,
changing everything it touches.
Truth is an inconvenient shape,
full of sharp edges and awkward angles.
Silence is safer, weighs more slowly,
and gently smothers your soul.
I am wrong.
I was born in the wrong place, possibly at the wrong time, definitely to the wrong family.
Somewhere there is a person who belongs.
Somewhere there is someone who would connect with those people, who could be this person that I’m supposed to be, proud and unashamed.
I am not that someone.
Somewhere there must be a person who feels this place down to the core of their being, and has a sense of home that I have never had here, and never will. Someone misses these people, having never met them, thinks like them, feels like them, is one of them. Someone wishes they were here.
There must be someone, somewhere, like that. There has to be.
There has to be a person who doesn’t feel alien under their skin, who isn’t out of place in every situation, someone who doesn’t feel the need to apologise for their very existence.
That person should’ve been, not me.
Maybe I just have the wrong soul. Perhaps it’s defective, scarred in some way, just slightly out of true.
If I’d just let them shave a little off here and there, I probably would’ve fit right in. They certainly wanted to. They certainly tried.
I might’ve been happy, if I’d never known how miserable to be. My ignorance might’ve purchased normality, as surely as my silence has bought me survival.
Instead I am floating inside myself like a stranger in my own life, eternally at odd angles, a bit out of sync, a prisoner in this life I never asked for.
Ultimately, I’m just a forgotten place-holder for someone who never really existed. I am my own stunt double, gone wrong.
This is all I will ever be. I will never be other than I am, and it will never be enough.
This is my Truth, my crime, and my punishment.
Shame is the Monarch of my soul, with Fear as its faithful Prime Minister, ruling my life with an iron fist.
Nothing I do (or through inaction, fail to do) is untouched by them.
When you can’t bear the thought of who you are, or what you are, as you are, even the simplest things become impossible.
I know it’s out there… just outside my field of vision, waiting for me in the darkness.
I imagine that I can hear it, slurping up through the temporal cesspool, shifting around in the blackness beyond me. It stares at me, with dead eyes, even though I can’t see it yet — won’t be able to see it, until it’s far too late.
I want to turn and run away. I want to flee, to go… anywhere, rather than to get pulled back down in there. There is nowhere to go. It’s pointless to even try. I am falling towards that loathsome pit, with a force that’s stronger, and more impossible to resist, than gravity. I will end up there again, just as surely as I crawled out in the first place.
I am the condemned, given an illusionary furlough. Every tick, every tock, takes me closer. My despair knows no bounds.
I can already feel it crawling across my skin, through it, under it. I can taste the foulness, smell the acrid air as it burns down my nose and throat. I can’t be that close yet, but I am. It’s reaching out for me, grasping, searching. It’s in no hurry. It has Time as its ally.
I breathe slowly, calmly. The first touch will be the worst; it always is.
The grim tide laps at my feet and the monster’s claws brush my face. Once I surrender, it won’t be so bad. It really will, of course, but I won’t care. I will have sunk beyond caring, beyond knowing. I will wrap denial around me and drown in an eternity of grey, until one day, I finally die.
Only then will I ever really escape.
A new year looms before me and old demons lurk behind me. Even as the Future opens wide to swallow me whole, I can feel the sharp teeth of the Past slicing into my back.
I die to be born.
I live as dead.
Only the flashes of pain remind me…
I am standing at the edge of the flames. They are slowly creeping up on me, burning my feet with agonising slowness.
Oddly, I find myself longing to leap into the heart of the burning pain and be done with it.
Time. Jump forward. Leap ahead.
Pull the strings.
behind the curtain,
more of my life.
Spin for me.
Wheel of Time.
The future is made
on the foundation
of my shattered bones.
me beneath your heel.
into the air.
How will I land?
What’s the difference?
Only the cruel impact,
the bruising, ripping, bursting
pain of the fall —
only that —
Memories. Beautiful things, but dangerous. So fair to look upon, so warm to hold, but such sharp sharp edges…
On second thought, memories are dirty little creatures, with vicious, sharp teeth…
Honesty, as a brick, wrapped in a sock…