Monday, July 5, 2021

Box on the Shelf


She sits in a circle of tattered dreams and dismissed possibilities, crowded by trash, thoughts covered in dust.  Occasionally shuffled but never organized.  Dramatic moments of frenetic filing giving the appearance of gaining structure, but entropy continues to slowly shift her impetus into fits of energy no longer fit for purpose.

She claws at a chain hanging over her heart, scratching at scabs.  She growls, damning its pressure on her neck. She groans, damning her hesitation to remove it.

Her mind fills with a well-worn monologue.  If you had polished it, cherished it, praised it, this chain would shine.  It is beautiful – you are the tarnish.

She longs for a box to put it in.  A label to put it in its place.  

Label it addiction?  No… addiction needs a heady pleasure actively chased with diminishing reward.  No, not addiction.

A wound perhaps?  A sickness?  A fungus?  A cancer?

Wait. 

Her eyes widen, her hand clutching the chain.  I have it, she thinks.  I have it.

This is a parasite.

A parasite who wormed his way into my world when I was vulnerable and alone.  A parasite that slumbered in my heart, its symptoms simulating hope and peace.  It ate at my enthusiasm and drank of my need.  And when I strove to be better, he grew agitated and fed me complacency.  It fueled my fears of failure and fanned my false fatigue.  It sucked hard, drawing as much from me as possible while searching for a new host.

And once found, he left.  Around my neck, a husk.  An empty husk that still feeds even after he moved on.  The echo of a parasite still acting as a parasite.

With a gentle smile, she unclasps the chain.  With a wicked grin, she labels the box. 

She will remember.  She will not be a host for these, a place where such would find succor.

With peace in her heart, she places the box on the shelf.