| Effects Of Confession It�s out. My deepest, most sacred secret. Out for the vultures to toy with. To tease me with, abuse me with. I�m so weak and vulnerable and open to attack. It can only end in disaster. Oh, fool. I shall go mad. Could I not endure? Or is that repression? Is there a difference. What does it matter. From hereon in, it�s changed. I�m on the outside. Crying. Tears and pleas. I will be picked apart in the name of humour, friendship, truth and honesty, left to dwell in my own self-pity and stupidity by the twin gods of mind and body. I will be laughed at behind my back and lied to to my face. Having stripped myself bare and leapt into hope and trust (an empty Pandora�s box?) I am betrayed as, even without the distinguishing Judas� kiss, I am left alone and unwanted. Such hyperbole. You�re just torn. It�s�indescribable. Is there a chance of hope in this choice? Not really. So why the hell did I choose it? I will destroy myself. And if I don�t, someone else sure as hell will. Pathetic fallacy? There�s nothing pathetic about the macrocosm�s myriad manipulations reflecting the microcosm�s sense of despair. And it rains? Of course. It�s part of a hydrological cycle that circles endlessly around one thing: my pain. Joy? Joy is banished. If there is a path of repair, it is narrow and unmarked, and it can only lead to rejection and humiliation. Repair? This is not repair but discoupling. It�s a wrench as the two split. Broken? Never broken. One would have to once have been complete to be broken, and I fear I never was � and, quite possibly, never shall be � complete. Unity, like its root the unicorn, is a myth. I am swallowed whole by my doubts. Surely believing them to come will make them come? But I cannot stop myself. My sickened soul pours forth, its awful beauty uncoiling itself from its cage within my flesh, and finds half its truth scribed already. The other half? I do not know. I hide it from myself, but it is not a childish tease. Only half the story, half the soul appears. The rest is not written, lost, or otherwise unavailable for investigation and cannot be recorded for posterity. Perhaps the truth will come. Perhaps it will not. Either way, I will fight it, I must, but for what reason to defend the citadel I do not know. I ignore myself and feign apathy in an attempt to rob misfortune of its sharpness. Can such a guise succeed? Not if I am but a book, and this book is but me. |