i’m scared of the dark. it’s less about the paranormal spirits and psychopath stabbers, though i must say those pesky frights do contaminate my train of thought in an unfinished basement. what really terrifies me is the end of another day, when we must come to terms with our actions and face the character waiting beneath our eyelids. the horror is not my imagination, but the reality of my situation.
at the dawn of a new day, optimism rises. calendars, text messages, and various notifications somersault me into the responsibilities of whatever date happens to take the stage. along with this is a twinge of hope to advance my music career bit by bit. i open my eyes anticipating the airy minutes where i’ll choose to envelop my thoughts with lyrics and melodies.
but i push that choice further and further back. i work 7:00 a.m. – 3:30 p.m. five out of seven days. after my shift, i’m consumed by an obsession to exercise. maybe it’s a healthy habit. or possibly a vain compulsion to reach a physical standard drilled into my subconscious by the health industry. conspiracies and guilt aside, most of my week places the beginning of my free time at 6:00 p.m., when natural rays of energy have, by then, faded to a dull darkness.
call it laziness, diagnose it as seasonal depression, blame the job. but the label won’t break the bond. i’m one with the sun, expounding destiny as it arcs and blind as a bat when it swings low. where does my purpose go? is it just on the other side of my mind like the sun to the earth? and if so, can i travel quick enough to rescue it?
despite my efforts to do so, the probability of retrieval becomes a breadcrumb in a wheat field. consistency is key and the negative of my potential enacts that wisdom to the tee. i eat unhealthy. television forgoes reading. pleasure dominates dedication, and there i lay, a living, breathing antithesis of my identity. the betrayal gnaws at my conscious, fully aware of the despicable treachery but nevertheless stuck as a quadriplegic slump.
i naturally over-dramatize within my writing. however, if you are here to understand, swallow these descriptions and taste the bitterness. to repeatedly engage in behaviors that induce self-hate must be the worst form of self-harm. for the pain is not temporary and there is no healing scar nor ointment to treat its disappearance. there’s no shortage of soul to slice open and ring out like a dishrag. it’s more than disappointment. it’s a fixation of revulsion — a cycle of disposed morale.
in reflection of my nocturnal perspectives, the surface is still quite mint. there are, in addition to counterproductive behaviors, mood swings of rage and avoidance. numbness and injustice mingling. nostalgia and regret sharing a room. impossibility and discouragement dancing.
to be the destroyer of one world, my own, compares closely with the role of a vigilante. average by day, daringly bold by night. occasionally lethal, and forever vengeful toward the past.
– D K T