Ctrl+Z?

Shit.

Stagnation

I hate the constant back and forth.  The slow and agonizing tug of war between my innate nature and the distant person I must resolve to become in order to have any chance of life in this reality, with these parameters.  I am the rope, the forces on either side bend and break my twisted bones, they crack me open, the loose, sinewy strands of myself flit uneasily in the constant tumult of my head, roaring through this place, cutting away everything that was once here to an eerie and sterile finish.  The dark volcanic glass shines with a cold and engineered malice, in every surface my own face stares back, pathetically empty eyes, the terrain itself engenders this feeling, imbues me with this strong and subtle self-hate.  It shows me who I am, standing still, standing lost, wandering this endless nothing where nothing grows. 

I am not myself and I am not what anyone wants me to be.  I fail to progress in either direction, in any direction.  I am stranded on this abysmal plateau, stretching infinitely in all directions.  A vast nothing to aspire towards. I've been here too long.  The stagnant air of this place, this feeling, has penetrated into every pore of my skin, and further still into my bones, the soft and slick organ tissue, the red hot blood coursing through my veins.  It runs through my body, it drives me towards paralysis, weighs me down, intangible poison of my own concoction, disease of the mind.  And soul. 

Insulation

Time moves forward, breakneck speed, roaring past me, crushing me to dust, overwhelming my lungs.  But my stubborn nature compels me to live in a stupid denial that leads me to live as though I'm insulated in a bubble devoid of time or existence.  The air will still run out some time.

Rigor Mortis

I am diseased.  An unshakable lethargy has seized my bones, it inches through every tendon and muscle, weakening me from the inside, paralyzing my brain.  I feel thoroughly disgusted by the rigor mortis that has set in to that part of me which should make me tick, and fill me with an urgency to act, to live, to accomplish things with purpose.  And I know the enemy is myself.  Myself, binding my wrists, and laughing in my own face.  I can feel the hateful derision of myself, lurking at the periphery of my consciousness, mocking me for ever hoping to do more than dissolve into non-existence.  It is a great effort to exit this damned house of mirrors constructed and contained in my own head, for the purpose of nothing other than to tease and test my own self.  How easily I fall back without the consistent effort to remain tiptoed at the forefront of awareness, at the very edge between myself and reality. 

Parasite

Amber

It's never dark in the city.  The night encases the city in the amber glow of streetlamps, giving the sensation of flying easily through a jar of honey in a dimly lit cabinet as I descend the last hill, shut in by the navy blue sky spread out above.  The shadows are more ominous, long shapes (legs in motion, winter-bare trees and stray cats stalking along silently between parked tire wheels) stretch across the sidewalks more solidly than their fuzzy-edged three dimensional counterparts.