I hope this goes someway to explain why I haven't posted anything in a while. I'm trying, I promise.
I am not better yet.
I may never be completely better.
But I am getting there.
Look, poetry is not my strong suit but this happened. It won't mould into a piece of prose and I don't want it to.
Sometimes I worry that my heart will stop beating
When everything is silent and dark; when I lay just right and I can hear it thud
I worry that it will just
So I move
Shuffle until I can’t hear it anymore.
Then I worry that it will stop and I won’t even notice.
I wonder if that would be a peaceful way to die.
I wonder how long it would take before someone broke down my door to find me.
Sometimes I worry that my friends don’t love me as much I love them.
Texts not replied to; conversations with an abrupt end.
I worry that they grow tired of hearing me moan, of invites turned down because I can’t bear to leave the house that week, that month.
I don’t know if my friends love me as much as I love them and if it is my fault.
Sometimes I worry that I’ll never achieve the things I want to.
Hours spent in front of the laptop; not creating, just wasting.
Time where I could be doing more.
Not starting at all is easier than failing entirely.
It can’t be awful if it doesn’t exist.
Time passes and ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ becomes ‘I’ll do it next week’ becomes ‘this month doesn’t count, it’s been a bad month’.
Guilt grows and mutates, anxiety crushes me under its weight. And still I do nothing.
I’m afraid that I’m not good enough to achieve the things I want to.
Sometimes I worry that people in the street are watching and judging me.
They have their own lives to get on with, they can’t be.
But I’m still afraid.
A laugh over the road, a coincidental glance.
So I walk with my head down, no eye contact. Walk too quick for anyone to stop me.
Slide through crowds, no touching, maybe no one will notice I am there.
Maybe I’ll stay at home this weekend. Next weekend. This whole month.
I wonder if my fear of being watched, being seen makes me self-centred.
Sometimes I worry that my parents would be disappointed in me if I told them everything.
Making excuses instead of explaining.
Telling them I’m happy on my own is easier than telling them anything at all.
If I tell them why I probably won’t have children, won’t have a wedding
Maybe they’ll think I’m broken.
I don’t want them to think I’m broken.
So I won’t tell them anything.
I’m afraid of what my parents would think of me if I told them.
Sometimes I worry that I worry too much.
But I can’t stop.
Not a 10 Minute Tale - instead something I wrote back in 2015. I'm still working on those 9 steps, I promise.
Step one: Embrace your inner child. Eat jelly and ice cream sometimes. Jump on that bouncy castle. Hang around menacingly outside shops for a few hours when school finishes. Refuse to do any housework and when someone tells you that it really needs doing now because Oh My God there’s rats in the kitchen; adopt the rats, give them cutesy names like Ratty and Mr Whiskers. Just go ahead and move back into your old bedroom at your parents’ house and demand that they make you breakfast every morning. Regress entirely, regress until you’re behaving exactly like your 3 year old nephew. Do one better and regress right back into infancy. Cry, cry and mess yourself and cry some more. All your needs are met and you can make them known simply by screaming at the top of your lungs. This is the only way to achieve true happiness.
A note: Another non-10 Minute Tale that I've been working on for a while. Let's get allegorical!
Welcome to my house, please mind the steps they are steep and they are many.
Right in front of you is where I rest, play games and wile away the hours. It is comfy and cosy and please ignore that cold breeze, it’s not always like this. No don’t look over there, don’t give it any attention. If you pay it attention it will venture out of its dark corner and you don’t want that. No please, don’t ask. It will only make you question every decision, regret every choice, bring you nothing but a pain in your chest and a quaver in your voice.
Please do not acknowledge the Beast.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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