my fingertips search for an edge to cling to. The fingers spread out and trip unapologetically over the creases and cracks where the wood meets the concrete. The miniscule openings were meant for insects and inanimate objects, not like myself. My fingers press in deeper, thrusting themselves where we know they will not fit. They scratch and bleed. Perhaps I can only define myself by the things I cannot do? They slip and slide from the top of the doorframe. Is there no way to hold onto this self I have attained? Will they always slip, slip, slip away?
I bash my fist into the concrete. The stone bites into my knuckles. Now I'm just hurting myself.
It occurred to me to check behind me; to follow the path that winds behind me. I am so afraid though. I can hear a breathing there, in the white expanse behind me.
What if she is there?
What if I like the people person back there better than me? I just don't know what to do with myself. I can walk outside in the middle of the night without any fear and then aspire for sex. However, looking up info online on sexual activities sends me shivering into a depressive state and going downtown or walking past the school is somehow forbidden. I wouldn't dare. I couldn't. The presumption that I'm not afraid of those things may be incorrect. Maybe it is simply a surge of bravery or much more believable and simple to understand, perhaps it is only a fake sense of security that I instill myself for temporary fun or insanity.
I am a birdie that has gotten so used to its cage that when it has been set free, it still imagines there is a cage surrounding it.
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Fragmented Self who wanders through life like a dreamer and wades through the river of dreams as though it were the only truth left in this world
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