I write, delete, write, and on most days, delete again.
Chapter: OCD and that Thing.
(Written in third person for distance.) Half her feet dangled over the cliff edge ever since she first heard God Pan's silent shout as a child. Sometimes she could predict when it would happen; sometimes, she could not. But whenever it happened, something behind her would dig their fingers into her back and push. She would lean forward. And when she leaned forward, heels still firmly planted, eyes looking down towards a cold void, she saw all the horrible possibilities pushing and pulling at the surface—teeth trying to cut through, claws trying to rip open. However, when she wasn’t looking, they would merely knock.
Michelangelo's David - The veil between us.
When looking up at him, as one must towards the famous sculpture, I wondered as I gazed upon his details, such as delicate veins and toned muscle and thoughtful texture, whether the real man or entity resides inside, watching me looking up—an experience of a transaction between mortality and immortality.
A Letter to The Next One
"The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own." That is what you will believe at first and maybe until the very last moment. So, as I write this letter sitting in front of the mirror you came across, I think of two things: the first moment my eyes laid upon my reflection and the second, the realization of a strange truth that the mirror holds. And as I listen to the slow creaking footsteps behind me, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder…
Do I climb, Chiron? to heal my old, open wounds the Mount calls often