Writing. Supposedly it’s the best way to get things out and gain perspective. They say a lot things, but what have I got to lose. (not a question, no mark) I’ve already lost everything.
I’m carrying a weight and a responsibility that is slowly draining all my energy. Sometimes, as with most carrying, I find that I dont notice it; it’s just there, slowly chipping away and sucking the life out of me with me simply unaware: happy in my naivety.
But then it starts to cut in my limbs and tug at my chest. The more I struggle and fight the more I feel it’s gravity. In fact, it’s antigravity. It’s a black hole drawing everything in. Of course I always manage to escape its pull but how many times must I? I surprise myself at just how much strength I possess because I simply don’t feel it.
There’s no path I can take: no twist, no turn, no hill I can go up or down on without, without notice, getting pulled back. Reminded. “I’m still here! I haven’t gone yet!” When I check the board, I still haven’t passed GO. There’s still four corners to pass and many coloured streets to trudge through.
Going backwards moving forwards. Regressing to a state I neither want, like, asked for. The black hole. Pulling me in.
I’ll make it.