Cell + 7
Things are changing.
I feel my mind polarizing, causing the plates to shift and stressing a fault line down the middle of my skull. I dreamed about the goddess at the bottom of the well again, and awoke feeling ashamed of my fear.
Like a grown man fleeing a girl scout armed with thin mints, there is no justification for this emotion, no explanation for the little red light blinking in the peripherals of my head.
There is now another severed cry, another rift whispering the fragile nature of my stability. I’m losing track of the bond between my mind and my eyes. I’m losing faith in my sanity, for my grip on this place.
For example, this morning delivered another hammer strike in the form of a small note. Just another straw added to the weight that will eventually snap my back.
I’d almost overlooked it as I gathered the growing collection of my loose journal. It sat servile beneath the pile, waiting to grow sharp upon observation. A single sentence was typed at the center of the page.
“We’re here to help when you are ready.”
Had it always been there? Perhaps I’d mistakenly picked it up each day, keeping it hidden at the rear of the pile.
Who is the “we” referenced, and why don’t they make themselves known?
When I’m ready for what?
My head hurts and I’m afraid. My will is weakening, and the unexplainable is beginning to outnumber the known. This battle over my sanity is deferring to the growing populace of the lacking. The tide is only pulling out, grasping hungrily to drown.
If I split in two, will the result be considered homicide or suicide?
Still, through all this, against the surging wave a fear hovering over me, beneath the weight of the cross strapped to my back, there shines the tiniest of hopes. Have I come to a crossroads?
Only days ago, such a note as I found today, would have sent me parading down the chasm of self annihilation waving a bloodied white flag of surrender to whatever demons waited to rip me apart, but today something is different.
A slight chemical transformation has taken place. The oil and water have somehow begun to mix. A bridge is threatening to span the ocean between myself and I.
Frightened and hopeful at the same time, I’ll embrace the storm growing in me and try to trust that the rains it brings will serve to wash away whatever stain holds me, and not reign over the process of my demise. Am I giving up or fighting back? I don’t know and don’t care.
Wherever this current chooses to drop me is out of my hands.
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