syrup

I think it is coming back.

It will be bad this winter. This seems like only the beginning. The dull ache that eats away at me. It can’t come back again. I want to bar the doors and throw the deadbolt, but it seems futile. Self medicating and going to sleep seems much easier than wrestling with the discomfort and unease. I can never quite pinpoint where it starts or stops. I can never quite tell what it is exactly. Constantly nagging at me whispering, barely audible, it breathes out terrible lies. Truths. It flits about; unable to be caught. Maybe I am just too sluggish to grab it, but it made me that way. The vicious cycle it sets off. Self perpetuating.