A swell of panic rises in my throat. Choking me speachless. I have been mute for weeks. Too frightened to breath, too rattled to think properly. What plague has come over me? What of fear? "There is nothing to fear but fear itself." What if one becomes it? I shall never escape. Sleep is a welcoming embrace. The unconscious state of being that serves as my only solace. I crawl into a fit of hysteria, like that of a mime. Silent. Distressed. Unnoticed. How shall I be saved from the rapids when my voice is stifled by water that is determined to drown me? I feel as though the river is shallow yet my feet can not find placement. My mind and limbs work seperately. Madness seemed so welcoming in childhood. The thought, of now, is paralyzing.
I'm being choked and beaten. My hands are the only one's in view. They betray me. My old self lures me, it's arms so inviting. My home is with the many shades of crazy. I can not. That part of me is deceased. Burried. Do I believe in zombies? My scars are shadows. Their memories have not forgotten me.
The world fades. A shadow of mist creeping into a forest of light and sound. My allies become complacent posts. Beconing, only, when I've come into sight. It extinguishes, yet arouses me-- A life of only thinking absently. Quietly, in solitude. It brings laughter to my lips. Maniacal, joyous insanity. I wait. I want company.
This does not feel like release. It feels entrapping. What is this becoming? God, reveal a glimps of hope. Revive my sanity. The road is growing bleak, to me. My past is locked securely. I have no way of knowing into what I am walking.
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