There is something aching in my throat. It clings like a desperate spore, spewing and propagating upon itself, reiterating, wanting to be more but only manifesting as pain. I call it pain but really it is longing. I used to look at the world as a child did. Now I have developed floaters in my retinal fluid. Reticent and demure, I endure. I rhyme too, on occasion. I resent the rhyming. All of it comes back to ridicule me. I think: the aching in my throat is psychosomatic, surely. I cannot be foolish enough to not have learnt this lesson. As above so below, as within so without. How can this even be challenged? Am I critical enough of my thoughts? Am I too critical? Am I critical of the right things? Is this a good start, or am I kidding myself? I have moments when the doubt all melts into nothing. It is bliss. Then, I am suddenly human again. Boring, sunburnt (because I hate the grease that blocks the sun, and am a fool), dehydrated, with my aching throat. The ache can be connected to a thought, but the thought cannot be connected to the rest of me. I think: who am I writing for, anyways? That is not the right question. I should think: why have I not written of the brilliance I used to see? I blame the floaters in my retina. Really, I should blame my dull sense of insecurity. I have become dull because it is safe. That is my aching. I want to be special badly enough to go ahead and try and do it. Yet, I stop short. Why? Because I am afraid of failure. Why? Because then my throat will ache even worse. Like I said, it is all psychosomatic, ok?
