Essay #2: Stitches In Time

I’m afraid of the improbable and the impossible; of wounding hearts and hands.

It’s like shooting at a glass moon and watching it shatter to a million pieces only to be plagued by the duty of having to pick up the pieces and putting it back together.  It’s a never-ending vicious cycle and things are never the same again.  The cracks and holes will always be there for the whole world to feast on – broken and torn.  Once that’s done, you sink deeper and deeper.  It’s cigarette depression – to quote a phrase from a book I have never read.  It just fills you up and decays you from inside out – rotting, fouling up.

Failure had always been me.  An ever constant presence that eats at my insides.  Success is but an elusive dream that never comes but is always gone.

I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a gun.  Cocked, locked and loaded and pressed against the temple of my head filled with useless thoughts of death and uncalled for redemption.  To use the cliché, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, and I just can’t seem to budge out of it.


I don’t want to sound profound anymore than I’m already trying to be – although I highly doubt that I do – but it seems to be the only way for me to get out of this crutch that’s been holding me down for so long.  It’s starting to kill me slowly and painfully that I have no other choice but to welcome it with open arms.

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