Yesterday, when the tide of ennui and malaise threatened to lock around my ankles, I plopped down into the wet sand and let the chill of discontent have me. To fight seemed like such an empty battle: why should one fight against her own nature? To punch a mirror will only bloody up my own knuckles.
And bring me seven years of bad luck, right?
In a sick, distorted way, it almost felt good. Giving in is sometimes like that; more pleasant than uncomfortable, but the dawn always breaks and stretches its effulgent fingers out over the land, baring my failure to the questioning eyes of the world. This morning, I didn't fight that, either. I let the cold early grey light rouse me from sleep, I let its judgment and guilt tremble up my spine like so many tiny termites with a taste for bone and sorrow.
I think the issue at the heart of all of this is that I've no idea where my malcontent comes from; I follow it back, trace it to its point of origin, but nothing is there. Just some great, boundless void at the edge of existence. It calls to me, beckons me forward. Promising answers if I'll only step closer, step inside, be swept away by the hurricane winds and siren calls.
But I've run out of breadcrumbs and I've always been terrified of the dark. A great abyss is no different.
Never can tell what could be waiting in the shadows in my peripheral vision. What hungry phantom wants to play with my soul or puppet my skeleton. I might be a coward but I'm not a fool.