I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
Monday morning rages in behind my eyelids, shouts to do lists and a terrified request at a mind uncluttered by its own illnesses down my throat. I have pulled down all the blinds, the room dark, there's a short space before your superego truly wakes when you can feign recovery, try to run into the day with that shred and keep the demons at bay.
The demons do not worry.
They have played the long game before and know their sinewy limbs will outlast your fits and spurs, gleeful hunter-gatherers on the savannah of your own lifespan.
But isn't this just the thing? When all the veneer is stripped away, when your socially acceptable pretenses are taken from you and you are left standing naked, panting, reduced to only your meager truths, do they not seem blissfully uncluttered? Does it not become clear what you are meant to do?
When you stop running,
do you not find that you can
set those demons on
fire?
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