I just crated a huge gash in my finer. I was being foolish and sloppy and ran into my door jam and it split open a chunk of my finer, the pain not registering at first. But after the inital dull unawareness, the blood came, red and viscous, intricate rivers of anger trickling down my fingers. I concentrate on the path the blood creates, so delicate but so mean and harsh at the same time, concentrating on that, only that as if I concentrated hard enough I would be able to block the other thoughts out, keep the bitter regret and tinges of failure at bay, to hide them from myself, to lie to myself, the worst kind of lie. But it's never that simple.
It came back again, tearing up my insides like a machette. It ate up my energy, my spirit, my spark, my happiness, my life. I couldn't even take the space to breathe because it was as if I was always being strangled. As if I was always fighting and was always mad at the relentless fears that hunted me down and beat me till I gave in, submitting to their will. They whipsered in my ear, haunting not only my dreams but my life, sewing threads of fear, apathy, and hopelessness that held my life together. They created a monster out of me. They fed off of me like a parasite. The whispers of failure. They were merciless, unrelenting and could smell doubt from miles away.