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Tempest, Teapot, Both?



This is a short I wrote while having a very rough time of it. They had put me on the overnight shift at work, and the lack of human contact followed by the nervousness when there was a customer, put my little heart and mind through the ringer. This is the best description of the meloncholy madness I have ever been able to put into words.

That sick feeling is starting in my gut again. The greasy, oozy discontent that opens the floodgates of self-doubt, contempt, and loathing. My attempts to halt the backslide into the raging torrent of emotional flagellation and subsequent despair will inevitably prove too weak and powerless to stop the snowball effect of self deprecation. All the would be Jedi mind tricks pounded unceremoniously into my head by the parade of therapists has never been enough to bolster my confidence to adequately stem the tide before, and though I still take deep calming breaths, count to thousands in increments of ten, and concentrate solely on remaining completely still for hours in five minute stages, I still fail to save me from myself.

The impact of rock bottom will find me yet again, praying for hope and wishing for sanity as I watch helplessly dumbstruck, while my world rains down around me. There, buried in the debris of my crystalline castle, huddled whimpering in the darkness flowing freely from my broken heart and mind, I will fight claustrophobic, from with-in that would be cairn of my perceived inadequacies to begin to scale the sharp-edged heap of yesterday towards the favored sunny places where I dwelt before, repeating the endless Sisyphean cycle of my torment, a cycle engineered and maintained by my own wounded psyche; however, that fact will remain as always, entirely beside the point.


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