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  • Writer's pictureA is for Agape

In the deep

Some days are not like others. I wake up and sense a difference, in me, my surroundings, life. On these days I want to stay in bed. Crawl under the covers and breathe in the warm air that comes from my own lungs. I want to close my eyes and pretend I’m in a cocoon, swaddled by the fibers wrapped around me, caressed back into a deep sleep.

My head takes me here, this dark place. Nothing seems right. The skies are always grey. I find flaws in everything. I find spots that need scrubbing. Imperfections scream at me. I do not hang loose, relax, enjoy. I pick and find fault. In this mood, I am not myself or maybe more myself than I know. But it always shocks me, scares me.

And I am not immune to the criticism. I am the subject of it. The mirror lies to me, tells me that I haven’t changed, but I know I have. I can feel it. And others will soon agree with me. My face morphs and blends, creating a hazy canvas. I’m not sure where features begin and end. The template has changed and I’m hidden somewhere beneath.

I hide inside my perceptions. I smile but trust no one. I wish the darkness away. It has consumed me for too long. I’m tired. I look forward to once again feeling the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, timelessness being part of the problem. I can’t tell how long it’s been like this. I’ve lost track of time again.

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