when it's night, and dark, and cold, and you are shaking under six blankets, you realize where you are in life. you realize that you can't live surrounded by ten or fifteen people who make you happy for the rest of your life. one day all those people, and the feeling of safety they bring you, will leave.
and there you are.
the camera zooms in on a frightened child. without it's safety blanket it has no chance of survival. the child can't function around it's own standards for itself. perfectionism, a fear of failure, a phobia, and debilitating anxiety are the distinctive marks of this species, the narrator tells you.
on screen, the child is shaking. she is too thin, too afraid, too cold, and suddenly not what they told her she was. with shaking hands, she presses earbuds into her ears, turning the voices up loud. they drown out her thoughts. there are so many she doesn't want.
when the camera turns away, you lose sight of the child. behind the scenes, ragged fingernails rip at her own skin. she rocks back and forth to the cadence of the noise in her ears. she thinks of everything that makes up the safety blanket. this is the better part of a day in the life.
the child shies away from contact, refusing to show how much she needs it. often there is nothing that would be both more unpleasant and more pleasant than a hug. more often than not, she wishes for a conversation about everything and nothing. just a nice voice - some nicer than others - to ground her. a gentle voice that sounds like it cares.
we leave you here this evening with the child. marvel at her state of near peace as she seems to cease to exist outside of her own mind.
she may watch you. do not fear her, she just wants to observe.
YOU ARE READING
a last note from your narrator
Poetrypeople write because no one listens - h.h. a collection of short stories written in various points in my life. mostly bad points. fair warning. title from the book thief by markus zusak i...
