My mantra is not strong enough to fix this tumbling loop of broken down dreams. What was it I said, in the beginning? “The writer gives life to a story, the reader keeps it alive.”
Dear reader. Thank you for all that you have done, but I am a raging mess of emotion, numb and exhausted being smashed against life’s sharp edges. Its whirlpools and precipices flaying my creativity. I struggle to breathe, to find reason to claw my way back to the surface.
I need to take a break from writing. I am not well or skilled enough to juggle, stark reality with a dream as precious as Unbound Boxes Limping Gods. The writer is too exhausted to breathe life into these stories. I feel sorrow and remorse, but mostly want to sleep.
I will wake up one day, after the maelstrom has spat me out. I’ll look up and see a blurry angel, my muse, Alexand Merek. And just as she had done, when I was seventeen years old, she’ll whisper. “Come with me, sweetie.” I’ll take her hand and reply. “But you’re not real!” And she’ll say. “Of course I’m real. Do I look made up to you?”
Unbound Boxes Limping Gods will return after a break on Wednesday 1st September 2021 (Last issue Wednesday 23rd June) Please keep the stories alive by reading past issues. (Issue 1) or if you would like a challenge (Chronological stories) The broken writer can’t give life to a story, but the faithful reader can keep blowing on the ember, whilst she sleeps.
I have three big fears. The first is too awful to write about, the second is burning to death in a house fire (but I suppose at least I would be dead) and the third is being made redundant. Anyone who knows me, will realise that catastrophizing is a skill I have honed into a super power, exploding anxiety bombs inside me continuously, driving me to do my best work, or be my ‘best self’ in the hope that I can somehow prevent inevitable (or perceived) horrors from catching up with me months, even years before they actually do (or don’t). Unfortunately my third biggest fear has come true, and I am now facing redundancy during the pandemic, and those anxiety bombs have escalated into overwhelming mushroom clouds.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am not going to curl up in the fallout. I’ve done this twice before. I take my iodine pills and get up. Please wish me luck for the future. I need it. Three redundancies in 13 years may be due to some sort of curse, but it sure does justify the catastrophizing. I like that word, but I could do without the curse.
This is not me
This is an imitation
Forged from a necessity to provide
In a world which fragments reality and personality
I grieve for precious time
Who I was is broken down
Unrecognisable, and consumed
Unless the imitation becomes a shield
And the world outside a monster
To be eaten by the broken-down imposter
Bringing me back to life