It is an otherworldly consciousness, as if looking upon a private memory through bleary lenses. I seldom watch despite its weight on me. I undertook this onus wholeheartedly, a struggle I welcomed for fear of confronting change and for the pleasure of anger and hate.
Hear me harangue tirelessly, each protest falling heavily like stones in my pocket. How to illustrate the sensation perceived from nourishing it while concurrently hankering to starve it in an attempt to hush its cavils? I struggle.
I am tormented when I forget that I would whisper to myself habitually, indebted with my own logic, diverted by my own imagination, jubilant with my intelligence, and humbled by my intrepid spunk. This new world paints its skies with the consequence of isolation and solitude rather than the prizes of cogitation and joyful meditation. I push people, ideas, novelty – away. I struggle.
There is no surrender upon the identification of an emotion, for when it has been named, the attitude may no longer inhabit. I have dissected it countless times, but I err repeatedly when I am unaccompanied as I again call on the familiar. I struggle.