To begin with, I am in control.
I had begun to understand the reality of the world I had stepped into. I had begun to appreciate the distance and the space that surrounded me. I had begun to loosen the strings tied taut round my waist slinking their way to the base of my neck, hugging my flesh. In the hours and days that stretched beneath my weary soles, I had begun to shed off every stain on my being. I speak of myself as if I belonged to my body.
Tapping toes on the cold stone floor, I channel every ounce of strength from marking the walls with flesh of fists. Pulpy, purple flesh. Every part of me that ever once felt alive has gradually decayed into a pile of unwanted compost. I lift my weight and carry it around but the only thought that crosses my tingling mind is dropping it all. I want out.
An infant in my own hands, I find myself incapable of holding together the mass of flesh detached of a specific state of mind. I begin to wonder if I ever shall. Two years and counting and the spiral darkens and the descend quickens. Forget.
The road trip doesn’t appear to end yet the steep edge stares right at me. I desire the slip that might ultimately lead me it. I sit in utter stillness and remind myself that I am in control.
Nothing hurts anymore. Nothing feels. Nothing matters. Nothing wrenches me free of the cesspool I call home these days. I fold in onto myself, oozing below the surface of comprehension. Even to myself.
I am in control.