ataraxis

xxvi

Sometimes, what frightens me is the faux tranquility that flickers in every dusk, in my darkness, when I have nothing to hold on to but that. The only resolve I reckoned to be my truth. The present.

Like a dose of placebo pills to push down my throat with a glass of alcohol, for a sickness that keeps me awake at night.

Like a bed of roses that wilt once my back was laid against it after feeling the fleeting rest, leaving the stench of despondence I would not be able to wash off.

Like the feeling of utter disappointment, of being able to grasp it only to slip in the spaces of my hand and pour like a puddle of liquid at my feet, of being almost there but not quite, of being so close yet so far.

A postiche of haven to make me put my defenses down with a shield of bubble, leaving my open wounds vulnerable for another bleeding.

That fear is consuming but rekindling. Because I needed to feel. Even if it ends up devouring me with nothing but a glob of dim.

So I'd hold on to it. And like a paradox, I'd fear peace and wish for it all the same.

Whether the result is an end or deliverance, I will wait for it to come to me.

xxvi: “when”