And it happened. I don’t know when, cannot point at the moment it did, when something, an indefinable, nebulous and known something slipped from between my fingers, a hot golden sand that I could no longer hold.

One minute I had it, the next I didn’t. I feel the space inside me, once occupied, growing and suffocating. This didn’t bother me. Until now. I didn’t lose my life’s rhythm, never missed a step. The chasm gnaws at me, dragging its claws across my conscience and tickling me cold.

And I have to get it back. I think I know how I lost it, or rather, misplaced it. I’m out of touch with myself, self-absorbed to the point of losing myself… to myself. Narcissism knows no limits, disguising itself as nothing more than confidence and introspection.

But, how can you be confident, how can you claim you’re self-aware, if you can’t see what you’re doing to yourself, can’t see how you lacerate yourself? I’ve been buried in my mind too deep and too long. It’s time to step out and step back into the beautiful and ugly mess that is the world.

And I’m flaming out. My edges are burned, the fire of the thoughts I should escape from slowly consume me. I try to run and instead rub against a sandpaper universe I can do nothing about.

And maybe this is why folding into myself is appealing: I can control what goes on within. At least I think I can, however time has shown me that often this isn’t so. Emotions often take on their own lives.

And I still don’t know what to do. With one hand I’ll reach into myself and with the other, I’ll grab onto the rough branches of the earth’s dry tree, never completely giving myself over, swinging between equally misleading worlds, hoping to find a balance and reclaim the spaces inside, fill them with better than vain dreams and indulgent desires.


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