Not an Oracle

It begins with a sensation.

Like a fist to the stomach, an ice cold bath, a paper cut. Sharp and fast.
I'm standing at the top of the stairs and the sensation arrives, swift and direct, and the blood surges through my veins like lava and yes, I am ready to erupt. I am standing at the top of the stairs and the overwhelming urge to throw myself down its short flight of twenty steps grips me. Yet, these steps are not cushioned with linoleum or carpet, these are hard, cold concrete slaps and I want my skull to greet each one with a sickening crack. I want my bones to twist and snap and bend and break. I want my spine to shatter like peanut brittle. I want to feel each moment as I break and lose my shape. I don't want to recognise the reflection.

I've been here before.

Standing on the curb edge, waiting for the three tonne lorry to pass. Imagining what it would feel like to marry my flesh to it's hot metal. Or walking by the river, I wonder what it would be like to try to swallow it whole. The bubbles escaping from the corners of my mouth as I submerge further. I let it all in. Sinking deeper into the abyss.

Yet, it is fleeting. As quick as the sensation takes hold, it releases me from its clasp. Offering me a moment to look inside the cacophony of madness. It's like looking inside a large shell. The softest whisper is transformed in to a vibrating pulse that can not be escaped. It rings in your ears and the claws slide in.

And then it's gone.

Like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, his volunteer is brought back from the trance. He may be slightly dazed, bewildered even; what did he just experience? He's not quite sure but he knows it was fraught with danger. There's a relief afterwards. Thank god that's over with. Whatever that sensation was, whatever it meant, it's done with. Except as the willing volunteer stands up from the hypnotist's chair, he realises that he was not so willing after all and he's signed a contract with that sensation now. As sure as the sun rises each morning, that sensation is set to return.

I'm disappearing and they never warned me that it would be so difficult to remove red wine stains from the rug. A scar upon it's surface.
I'm disappearing and they don't tell you what decay smells like until you have experienced it for yourself. Skin blackened and ready to burst from the lightest of touches but you just can't bring yourself to lay your fingers upon the rancid looking flesh.
I'm disappearing and I've forgotten what it feels like to not have to worry about the undefinable future. To see through it's deceitful veil and know not of what it brings nor be affected by it's endless outcomes.

I'm disappearing and I know that they look upon me with fear in their eyes. Maybe it's not fear, maybe it's something rooted a little bit deeper. Of contempt. They do not wish to allow that sort of torture unsheathe inside of them. To feel it's pin prick as it begins to unravel and systematically shut down each of their functioning body parts. It's not your problem, it's someone else's but therein lies the problem. Not a singular person to surrender and suck the venom from the bite.
I'm disappearing but I guess you knew that already.

I find myself residing here, in the mouth of the monster. Ready to be swallowed whole, ready to navigate the messy, acidic belly of the beast. Ready to be slowly digested, guts exposed, bones brittle and weathered. At least it is warm here. At least I am sheltered from the elements.

This is an anonymous thank you.

Your words inspire and bolster my belief that everything will work out okay. The road may twist and turn and the unexpected may choose to travel the same path as the expected. And there are days when the ceilings creep lower and the walls close in but you offer assurance that there are still stars and skies outside the brick and mortar. You have my upmost gratitude and though you may never know, I dispel my thanks out to the universe in the hope that it may reach you with a fleeting moment of warmth.

We never really break old habits. We just learn ways to distract ourselves from them. If we dig deep enough or stop going against the grain, they will be found stored away in little boxes at the bottom of our souls.