Confessions Of A Three-Week Old Steemian ⓟⓔⓡⓢⓞⓝⓐ:
If life is a cruel joke, we may as well laugh at it.
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I am a spine: a long, dancing snake. I reside in fathomless layers of flimsy flesh, in spite of having shed myself a time too many. Ever since I was born, I’ve been bent and broken, only to grow flexible in ways you’d never think feasible. Firmly adhering to my venomous routine: bite and recoil, rinse and repeat. I’ve been known to hold redundant poison for a creature my size. Better safe than sorry; or so they say, for I have outgrown apologies, and they have outgrown me. If I’m cold-blooded, I wasn’t always so. Forgive me not.
To crawl or not to crawl? Vertebrates dare not ask, for the question itself is a condemnation to the very movement. It’s time to get up. Slowly moving to the surface. I see the light of a new day. The head goes first, and the body must follow - being attached at the neck. When the feet touch the ground it’s freezing. A sharp reminder of another day and a failure in the making.
I look myself in the mirror, only to notice that my eyes have turned into slits. I can barely remember how they looked like, even though it was just yesterday when they’d last gazed back upon me. It scarcely matters, it’s all temporary. This is who I am now.
Carpe diem my dear. Today is my beginning and my end. Everything else feels like a lifetime ago, and it probably is. Every attempt at gaining some insight, or tapping into the presumptuous mindframe of reason, lead to the same inconclusive outcome. The past is a series of pictures, suffering from slanderous alterations, haunted by disembodied echoes and sacrilegious voice-overs. It is a narrative I can no longer tell myself - or anyone else, for it simply does not belong to me. You see, I am an impostor, a shadow of the person I once were. I wonder if others can see through me.
Say they already did. Would they secretly wish they hadn’t? It’s been a long while since anyone dared look me in the eye. My new face is no longer pleasant as it were. My features have grown hard and monstrous. The change is so subtle and yet exorbitant. I am a ghastly presence, striking fear into their mortal hearts. They avert their gaze, lest they catch a glimpse of themselves. I take no offense, I’ve always respected one’s right to remain ignorant.
I place my hand upon the window, my window to the world. I can only watch, as my fellow men are rapidly devoured by concrete walls. The sun has taken refuge beneath thick layers of cloud. Nothing here’s worth shedding light upon; not today. People don’t bleed with kindness like they used to. Day by day, the skin is subsiding, and they grow cold and afraid, as they watch themselves change. They scream: “Save my stupid skin…save it, for a rainy day.” And as the rain is pouring outside, I am baptized by the grip of insanity in the privacy of my own interior.
All I ever wanted for, all of it, it slips through my fingers. Everything I ever wished for, a bold mirage in the morning rain. This much I recall. This is where today is. It starts when hopes are shed off.
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