Wednesday, 14 March 2018

Aaah, there it is ... the old bullet wounds ...

There we go. After four days of prodding, digging, drilling, poking, fishing and unearthing, I finally found it: that old feeling of worthlessness ... The old forgotten shrapnel lodged in my lower spine, etching at the spleen, etching deep at the liver. Reading some horror, watching  some dark movies, a fight with grandma, project going nowhere, incidentally breaking my favourite toy, the rain, the cold, the infected bladder, dad being a bit sick and having to drive to a funeral soon - all of these inspired - I also served myself some visual aid - that old emotion to lift it's ugly head. I knew it was still there. I knew it wasn't ever really gone. What is a decade to an inch-deep scar? I knew all this will cluster into a reason for feeling like I'm at the end of (f)light.

I am worth nothing, others are precious.
I am ugly, others are beautiful.
I am weak, others are brave.
I am average, others are exceptional.
I am a joke, others are a battle cry.
I am a grave moss, others are gems.

I know my old bullet wounds well. Nice of them to try and trick me, an almost kindness on their part. One of us must go back to sleep now.