Saturday, October 18, 2014

Anxiety

Fault.

A fault is a break in the circuit, a place where the electrons find a new home and refuse to do what they were meant to do.

A fault is a break in the plate, a place where the skin of the earth tears or slips and refuses to go with the flow.

A fault is a break in the character, a place where the motives misalign off propriety and produce unwanted behaviors.

It's all my fault I cannot face you. I don't know how to push a button, hear a voice, and say that there's nothing in that place inside me where sense comes apart and motives refuse to move me. I don't know how to admit anyone into that place, not even myself.

I can say it's fear, but I cannot say of what.

I can say you're not the first. I can say it's something I've never been able to explain.

But can say and do say are not the same thing. Saying a thing is not the thing said, if I have no idea what that thing is. Where it is. How it is.

Do you know how many times I have unopened letters or unopened email messages? There's a pile of envelopes all containing some kind of message, whether a threat or a question or a command, I'll never know.

Maybe some time, long ago, I opened something I wasn't meant to, and inside there were ants, tiny little black marks moving across a whiteness towards my fingers, towards my eyes, towards something squishy hollow inside me where they bit me and bled me and pained me into forgetting any of that ever happened except in the anxious moment I have to deny ever happened. No, really, it never happened, never happened at all, not only not happened, but what were we discussing?

But fault never goes away. Fault is a break, and the pieces cannot be made whole again. They might slip aside one another; they might bump together and tingle after some percussive maintenance. But there's no hard knock to the soul that will ever remove a break inside one's character, inside the secret morality governing your secret anxious fear.

Or maybe there is such a knock, a "behold I knock" moment of wide-eyed hide your porn hide your stash hide your dope hide his wife seizure of will sending every contraband piece into burials wherever they'll fit.

This isn't like that. This isn't hiding away something wrong with my soul. You know my soul.

I guess that's the real truth to why I cannot place one ear against a tiny vibrating speaker and listen.

How did I get to be so cowardly?

Whatever truth is the answer to that, I know it's still my fault.

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