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lifting the head, squaring the shoulders, clenching the fists
2003-03-18-9:24 a.m.
It's tangible and thick. It's heavy and clinging. It's a real, almost visible thing. But I can't really see it if I look right at it, so much as feel it, literally holding back my breath, always pressing it's weight upon my chest, making my limbs move slowly, weighing me down, blunting my thought. The sun is visible, but far away, and it's warmth is stolen long before it gets close. It's not something that can just be cast off, shrugged aside, or cut down in one great swipe. Flailing about and standing firm is almost completely ineffective, and only serves to weaken both body and resolve. The only way out is through unrelenting, exacting, almost surgical strikes. Staring down things so vile it is just easier to forget. It has no one heart, and no mind to speak of. I guess no mind that's not my own. The only way out won't be direct, at least not at first. And the problem is that there's a precious someone in here with me. And I'm afraid my slashing and fighting might also hit her. I'm not sure if she wants out yet, and if she is, I'm not sure she's going where I am. But there really is no choice. If I stay in here, I'll end. I won't die, but I might as well. If I stay in here, I'll just become a withered and tired shell. Hollow sockets where once bright eyes burned. Once the fight begins, it will be too late to stop, and this might be the last chance I have, if the me that comes out is to be anything like it was.
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