Retourner

So many times in the past few months I have started writing. There are pages and pages in assorted notebooks that are evidence of my efforts. Oftentimes I have trouble articulating the emotions I'm experiencing, which might be difficult for some people to believe, I know. 

I feel my beast's presence, the way you might feel a slight breeze through an open window. He can be so elusive, just outside of my grasp and then what am I left with? I'm left with a feeling, a detection of something that is waiting just around the corner. Because that's a very real possibility, isn't it? Any day I might wake up and he will be waiting for me. Any day he may arrive and huff and puff and blow my fucking house down. And that could be the end. The punch line of a long, drawn out joke. That's the way it feels sometimes anyway, like some sick, cruel joke; a prank that's gone way too far and gotten out of hand. 

It's not as though I live in a constant state of paranoia, sometimes days or weeks pass where I forget entirely about this shadow, this blemish or scar on the innermost layers of my life. But so much time has been spent waiting, bracing myself for the storm my beast carries with him. The destruction he leaves in his wake. The mess I'm left to clean up, the pieces left for me to reassemble, sometimes ruined forever.

When he's biding his time, when I can feel him waiting for me, what is there to write about? What can I say that doesn't sound like irrational suspicion? And then there are bound to be people who will tell me not to dwell, or invite it into my life. Negative thinking leads to negative experiences and all of that bullshit. Whether I remain conscious of my beast at all times or deny his existence entirely, he will come. He will come for me and I will be powerless against him. 

There aren't any answers here, so don't come looking for them. I guess this is my return.