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.