That’s what I see you know, in the center of it all- a small child, sitting on a large chair, not daring to move off the chair because it is safe on the chair. The child cannot get into trouble if stays on the chair, the child cannot fuck up, or mess shit up if it just stays on the chair. No one will make fun of the child if it just stays there, on the chair, hiding from everyone because no one can see it now. No one can yell at the child, tell it what it’s messing up again, saying it’s fucking up its life, or always doing it wrong, making so many mistakes, that it’ll never learn… That’s what’s there. In the middle of all the facades, under all the smiles, and the jokes, and the fake apathy. It’s a fucking little child, sitting on a chair, so afraid to get off the chair for fear is doing it wrong, for fear of falling- because no one has ever been there to help the child up, and the child thinks- why would they? No one will ever help a fuck up, no one ever has helped me, and no one ever will- why would they? And you don't want to see that terrified little thing because though you know logically that it's not true, the fear is paralyzing, the fear makes your breath hitch in your throat and makes you gasp. So you keep busy, piling on as much as you can get a hold of just to make sure you're left with no free time to even glimpse at that tiny little horror crying in the core of your soul- but you took on too much, and you begin to lose your grip- and you fail. You mess up. You fucked up again. Why can't you do the simplest fucking thing right?! And it's something so simple that you messed up- burnt the dinner, spilled the milk, broke a ceramic bowl- and you begin to tear up, begin to cry, and at first you don't know why you're crying. But you're boarding hysterical, you can't stop crying and then you hear it- gasping for breath, cowering, trembling, shielding itself from invisible blows that aren't coming but it expects it to. The little child, alone the chair, trying to be quiet, trying to shut up but it can't. It's revolting, but at the same time you want to hold it, coo and cuddle, 'shh, shhh, it'll be alright. I promise, this will be alright.' But it makes no difference, because the child cannot hear you. And you keep on crying.
Nightmares have a funny way of revealing themselves.
To days to come,
All my love to long ago.