closer

Hold your hand as far away as you can from your face.

Bring it closer. Closer. Closer. Closer.

If it's touching your nose, it's blurry. That's what happens when you're too close to a situation.

My hand has been backing up.

I haven't been writing because I've been yanking my hand away from my face. It's stubborn. Doesn't want to. Wants everything to remain out of focus. Out of focus means I don't have to deal with it. Out of focus means I get to delude myself.

I feel as if my life is a glass bottle that keeps falling off of a counter, and only at the last second do I sweep down and rescue it from pieces. Over and over again. The glass bottle doesn't have much further to fall until even the quickest reflexes won't save it. Tsk tsk, must do better. Must keep the bottle on the counter.

Everything I've been saying has been locked up tight. And everything behind that door feels like it has all the pressure of the Mariana Trench behind it. I can feel all that sticky, messy emotion feeling around the edges, looking for the tiniest way out.

I don't know how to do this. The only thing I could think to do was to isolate. Even if the door breaks, it only breaks on me. It cannot hurt anyone else. Besides, what's the use of it? Everything I feel has no place in my life at the moment. I've never been good at inaction. Letting things be. I am all action, all the time. Move these pieces here. Now transfer those there. Now I'm just staring at this door, waiting for it to break. Door isn't very strong. Never was. Just sitting and waiting. Catching that bottle. Pulling my hand away from my face.

Now that I've inundated you with metaphors, I have to go read a book about a serial murderer and cook potatoes.

-Rae