Every time I inhale a puff of smoke from the air, I know my lungs are getting deteriorated.
Every time I take a drink of alcohol, I know that my liver is weakening.
Every time I read a lousy book, I know that my brain is getting rusty.
Every time I write something, I know they’re out there to get me.
I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it in my gut. I can feel it in my entire body. And it is paralyzing. Every word that I write down on my blog, I feel that they’re watching. Watching my every move and word. And once I finish it, I feel that they would come knocking and say “Ha! There’s proof of your authenticity. You’re arrested for fraud”
Every moment, I have that dread. There’s a way to end all this. To stop writing. To stop telling stories. Because it is not just the blog that makes me feel like this. It is the entire point of telling a story. I feel that I am taking someone else’s story and passing it as my own. I feel that I am lying through my teeth as I write this story. No one can write a poem in 5 minutes, just like that. And when I write one, I feel that it is impossible. That I am parroting back something that I have been read a long time ago.
Every moment, even when I’m asleep, they move. They move stealthily. No one knows that they were there. No one knows where they’ll be next. But the moment that happens, it usually is the end of me. So far, I’ve been running. Running from where I was present. I’ve run back and forwards in time to escape them. I’ve run through galaxies, universes far away from my own. I’ve traveled into parallel worlds where the speed of light is a billion meters per second. I’ve traveled into worlds where light itself bows down to gravity. I’ve traveled into worlds where time stops. But I’ve never been able to escape them.
This is my message if you’re reading this.
“They’re coming. No matter how far you run or how fast you run, they’re coming. The truth will be exposed”