The weaver

I feel like a figment of someone elses imagination, a discarded toy that only exists when they remember me and switch me on, like a perfect doll who laughs and smiles and dances for others pleasure and then I get put back in my box and I retreat and go back to only half existing again. Because I am sometimes here and present and sometimes far away in an unreachable land and sometimes I am not here at all. I’m not living for myself, nor serving others, I am a half breathing thing in an uneasy hibernation.

I’m not longer relying on others approval of me to feel good, it is too tiring and only weakens me further. The moulding and stretching of myself into their desired shape and projections leave me feeling vacant. My head is a pendulum of emptiness and woe and on weekends I smother the sadness and fill the void with music and laughter and other peoples happiness and potions to alter the mood, so I can exist somewhere outside of my mind.

‘How do you do it? Really live?’ I ask the others, looking for some clue, an answer, a spark of truth amongst the black cloak of snow as I trudge through this dark night of my soul, looking for a lantern to guide me home. It seems that they drift and latch on to things that feel true, that give them anchorage or else they have some sense of self that keeps them afloat, some sense of belonging or comfort in who or what they are.

Their advice is of no use to me. For there is a dark spindle at the core of me, spinning and weaving a black web of crushing matter that suffocates and scars me from the inside out. Like wire wool that splinters shards throughout my every organ, and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, filling my words with spite and scorn. My every ounce of energy is spent on trying to soothe and fill each little cut, but there are too many, too deep and fast they bleed. I am forced to reach outside for the cure because all that is within me is rotten and badness, it knows no healing, no peace. I sweep down corridors within me and peer out windows always seeking, always hoping.

At night my sleep is restless and I am visited by spirits who suffocate and hold me down, pushing and pulling at me as if to remind me that I am of neither world, not quite living, not yet dead.

By day I am still searching for the golden thread, the sparkle that once made me tell stories for pleasure and write love letters instead of desperate pleas and goodbye songs.

Inside it feels like an empty butter churn turns, a stuffed glass eyed hamster rotates on a mechanical wheel, a pointless, relentless, onwards march to nowhere and nothingness, beyond survival. But still I keep on and on and on, and I weep as I weave and I weave as I weep.

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