Authentic Beast
Narrative Prose - Spitting on the Page
I’m currently packing up my life and moving overseas. I have been coming across these random bits of spitting onto the page in the numerous notebooks I own - here is one.
There is blood on my hands.
It is my own.
From having reached into my chest and torn out my heart more than once over the last 24 months.
You are at home with this feeling.
Gnawing in your chest cavity, the teeth grating on your skull, waiting to snap the jaw closed.
Doesn’t matter where you are or who you’re with- it’s constant.
Anxiety, my favourite flavour.
A decade of work to tame it - ha!
But still, this suffocation.
Trapped.
Something deeper, not generalised or social.
Existential.
No amount of self-help, travel or stimulation can quiet this.
It subdues the beast, but it’s still there.
There is a solution.
A terrifying solution.
Listen to it.
And when you listen, you begin to question your internal world.
Inside isn’t a safe place.
It’s your prison.
Reread the stories you’ve written.
Why do you believe who you are?
Why do you do the things you do?
What is happiness? What is fulfilment? What isn’t?
Each question, each moment of reflection, brings you closer together
Anger. Grief. Pleasure.
Stop the performance!
There is no authentic self.
You’re just a beast.
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And if you liked this, let me know. There are several pieces in this vein amongst my notebooks.
As I type this, I am in the middle of moving across the world, which is not aiding my quest to be more consistent in posting here. Anyway, I digress. I have a 3 -4 part piece up and coming, but in the meantime, you can check out my older fiction.