I feel the breaking point, much like the tense moment before a fissure destroys a glass pane.
I have lost myself in a loop of excuses to avoid social interactions. I avoid social situations because I am sick and I am sick because the social situations leave me induced with stress. I understand how petty this dilemma is, but that understanding isn’t getting pass the thick knot in my throat.
I don’t want to breathe when I get near my front door because I know where the next door will lead, and I don’t want to be in that room.
My issue isn’t other people, at least not directly. I’m more pathetic than that. I am the matter.
The solution to my problem is arduous because their perception of who I am has begun to manifest in me. I can’t tell who I am anymore and it leaves me wondering if I’m broken?
My certainty is lost and the fire is being smothered. Their words are piercing through my flesh and echoing in my ears. I can drown their comments with thoughts. A polished front is donned by releasing anxieties through lead onto fibers.
Technical work is preformed to escape these abstract things labeled as emotions, but is that all I’m doing, escaping?
A brittle snap is nearing; I wonder if factures are mendable before breaks occur? My desperate desire is to find solitude with my books, their presumption do not pertain to me.
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