Sunday, 13 January 2013

Right Now...

Right now, the Black Dog has me.

I can feel its teeth, biting my heels as it chases me down the spiral into darkness.  I am out of my mind, terrified and lonely, and even though there may be arms reaching out to save me, I can't see them. 

As my thoughts go round and round without resolution and its serenity, I become more distressed, more detached from my mind and emotions.  I am no longer mistress here, this house has no occupier, and I can feel it falling down as I watch on from the winding garden path.

I ask myself questions to which I have inadequate answers, queries that I feel I am not clever enough to solve, claims that fall apart with the closest scrutiny as if they are castles made of sand.

The negativity chokes me.  It chokes the vital part of me, the creative part of me, the living vibrancy of my soul, unless that too is a lie and all I am is the sum of my cells.

I have gone through this many times before.  And each time, the woman that stands before you smiling is the ghost that haunts an empty shell.  She is a part of me, but she is not the whole of me, the true me.  That woman lies screaming beneath the floorboards and the earth, buried up to her neck and unable to save herself from the ghost that taunts and floats and prances round with the shape of her body, the cadence of her voice, but lacking anything that makes her the woman you truly know.  For how could a shadow of a person be that person?

I have come out of this many times before.  I have moved the dirt, with a little strength that somehow I find down here in the basement.  Perhaps a caller comes to the door, a familiar voice that drifts down to my ears.  My strength nearly always comes externally, you see.  From you.  And I surge up, cracking the wood and freeing myself to stand in my house, once more mistress of its interior.  The ghost slinks back to her place high up in a room where she can do little damage.  Though I hear her sometimes, banging on the door.  And her pet, the Black Dog, will scratch at the walls.  When I go outside I see the marks of his claws and teeth upon the bricks of my house, ugly and sharp.  I paint them over, bury them with gloss and colour so that no one will see and remark upon the damage to my house.  It must always be pristine, as perfection is the shield against another's gross opinion.  But it is a small shield, easily wrenched from my hands, even though I hold it tight.  And that is when the Black Dog growls, and the ghost-woman howls with glee.

Though they would do that anyway, without giving reason, at any hour of the day or night.

A curse on my faulty brain and all its wicked voices.

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