Time's Confessions

The thick, heavy hours creep behind me, lethargically following me into my personal hell.

Life slows down and elongates itself into eternity.

Time spawns replicas of itself, burgeoning forth as every instant feels like infinity.

Each second hurls itself at me, expectantly waiting for me to placate the duration with purpose.

But I am trapped in the confessions of my head.

Anxiety spectacularly begins to surface. Panic reproduces itself.

Each moment breeds another moment, another opportunity to surfeit upon the frenzy of disquieting thoughts in the indiscernible distance.

The battle continues.

My thoughts stage a hostile takeover, targeting my unwillingness to listen.

Against my will and with the sanction of time, the merge is complete.

The new memories come to me in waves, but I nor my tears could have been prepared.

Time may stop now.

The Hostage

Hostage

Slowly the evening falls upon me.

The possibility of peace is shattered into a fairy tale as

the night struggles and collapses into the blackest hole.

With her naked eye the moon stalks me into hiding.

No light is spared.

I hear the footsteps of my thoughts scatter inside my mind,

running rampant, tunneling through the darkness until I'm found

crouched in fear.

A tightly woven web of chaos is assembled around me.

Motionless, I sit under the glare of tyranny.

With unbridled abandon they advance upon me:

Closer. Closer. Closer.

The moment is surrendered to madness.

History threatens the illusion of control.

My entire armor sheds in defeat.

Sanity becomes a desperate bargain,

a violent negotiation between the authorities of life and death.

My mind holds me hostage.

Little by little, piece by piece,

I am completely swallowed,

but no one can tell that I am missing.

The Miserable Ones

It's not insignificant; it's my life; it's my mood. I thought I had made peace with my obsession, but my definition of self-respect, self-worth, and confidence is still determined by my weight.  

 I only wear sweat pants so no one can see the shame layered on my hips and thighs. I don't want to leave the house because I'm too fat, and the house is tired of sheltering me and my insecurities, tired of hiding me inside her judgmental walls. But I'm too afraid to leave the house at this weight.

I really don't want to live at this number. I'm not suicidal, but I would rather be dead than be this fat.

And I can only guess my re-awakened obsession with my fat might have to do with the nightmares and memories reminding me even more of my shame and damage.

And I'm upset. I miss Therapist, and we don't see him for another week and a half. We don't know where to turn for support. We have no one.

It doesn't matter anymore.  

"He that lives upon hope will die fasting." ~ Benjamin Franklin

“Life has killed the dream I dream.” ~ Les Miserable