Scut and Weasel

The clench of uncertainty grips my being and catapults me into rigidity.

I am stiffened to touch and distracted from my very self.

It is not the me I know to be anymore.

The observation and integration of my internal polarising dimensions is no longer the blissful and tedious experience of my own.

The consumption of such worldly ideas plague the mind, the body and the observer.

My survival under threat through inhalation and consumption of such foreign substance.

Looking back into the mirror I see two sides of a story but no mediator.

I see the distractions and the noise but rarely the peace.

And even in the peace eyes don't forget the trouble, self medicating and refusing to sleep.

Ears on full alert and a fragile ego afraid to disappoint itself and others.

A hearty life is warm and protecting, with lack of polarity and strenuous notions of calamity. 

Buried in the ground but not in fear of suffocation, just below the surface where things are bearable, but you are not alone. 

Tears can be hidden from others but experienced in full.

To savour the sweet feeling of sadness in this world is to truly bask in the sunshine on a planet of your own.

To be safe and secure hidden from else, connected to the depths of an experience unknown.

Where I wake to the storyline that I have awoken every day with no insight or reason for my existence.

Back to the holy trinity of myself, the lulling conversations of a man and woman destined to fall in love, cautiously building the foundations of trust for a future uncertain of certainty.