I read back on these self-pitying blatherings, and I am vaguely disgusted with myself.
To allow oneself to wallow in self deprecation and self flagellation is pointless. Why use my words to fight? Why use them to fight myself? I'm indulging my inner teenager. If I don't stop I'll be locked in my room painting suitcases and saying things that only make sense to me. But I won't. Not ever again. The human condition and the battle against it cannot be given sanctuary, for to do so sanctifies it in my heart. And I do play the martyr so well.
This melancholy cannot be allowed or granted dominion. I internalize all of it, sucking my tongue and tapping my feet. Like the song says, along with my heartbeat hammering in my chest. It feels like a bell, ringing and ominous. The sound of my own heartbeat produces colors in my mind that are sickly and unpleasant. A surging churn of oxblood faded in fear.
I'll stoke the lines of my throat where it is softest, and feel my beauty. I'll sing my songs until my voice breaks, and I shall feel the freedom. And I will love. Regardless of outcome. I will not be Ophelia, drowning in sorrow and madness.
The golden apple has been thrown. I've decided not to pick it up this time. Let the other girls play, and Eris have her due from them. I have chosen. And my due has already been paid.
Paid in blood, paid in pain. Paid in small casual cruelties. Paid in my own avarice and preening.
I am not tragic. Nor will I let myself become so. I have the tools. I'm no Sylvia Plath, trapped in a world not ready. The world stretches before me. The cosmos stretch before me.
And all I must do is reach out my hand, close my eyes, and let myself fall.
Maybe I'll hit the ground. Perhaps someone will catch me. Or, fate permitting I shall break my own fall.
Psyche? Are you ready to tuck and roll? Let's go.
