What you leave behind
It has caught up with me again, and it holds me strong. The restlessness came on me today and I feel its squeeze as I flounder within its hold. It is a net, it weighs down my arms, my head, hinders the movement of my legs, makes it hard to even breathe.
I try to ignore it; and this helps for as long as I can sit still and think of other things. But it must not be thought about, and this prevents it from being forgotten. It is there, perhaps even more painfully, when it is held in the back. Suppression is, after all, how it works.
Have you ever noticed how when you stand still all your muscles seem to quiver?
And if you try to run away, to shake it off with action, its grip only tightens. It can be left behind this way no better than an itch.
I am a fly caught in my own fictious weavings of reality. The spider is my discontent: the rot at my core; the instrument of my beauty. The spider holds me tight and I hold up its work and say: this is of me; it is horrible to look at but the patterns, the weave, they are beautiful, and I cannot let go.
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