It feels like an endless war. Her feet are black and blue and she’s staring at the screws that were removed as if they are trophies. Years of pain and suffering went by as these daggers pierced through her flesh. They all stare as if she’s not worthy. No compassion left from some people. They’re just as tired of the battle, but forget she’s in it fighting on the ground. Knees swollen, raging, but still going. Still trying to meet the expectations of others while slowly slipping away from herself.
Everyone she loved abandoning the war. She did for awhile, thinking a broken sword couldn’t withstand the groups of oppressors; to be fixed always being the goal. They pick, poke, prod, and move her like a ragdoll into situations; her body never feeling as if it’s her own anymore. Her choices taken away at times like she’s nothing but an object. Just sitting on a wall waiting to be poked, prodded, and picked at until her feet become so fragile nothing is left.
What’s freedom? She thinks. I don’t know what it feels like anymore. It blew away and only part of it came back. Real freedom comes from acceptance but I don’t feel it anywhere around here.
It’s like purgatory; waiting to die but still living. Her eyes swollen from a lack of sleep thinking about what she’s been through. At times she wonders how she lasted this long. There has to be a reason but people try to take her reasons away.
The narcissists come in to revenge, destroy and try to elevate upon her suffering. Like a neverending game of cat and mouse, except with her life and circumstances. Stealing ideas, trying to take what she creates, ripping off pieces of her personality while her body fights a battle they know nothing about. They don’t understand what it’s taken to develop into an authentic being.
She was once young, cruel at times, and immature. But loss created a different version now; one that cannot be duplicated. Her art comes from pain, interests from isolation, and maverick-like state from always being on the outside looking in. Never an accepted individual in a group. Those words don’t mix. Like vinegar and oil they sway in a bottle until she walks away silently.
It’s her battle, her story, her persona that has influenced many who will not dare to admit it. To them it’s like admitting a peasant changed them while they view themselves as royalty. Royalty that was delusional or inherited or copied from people like her.
This online world is nothing but a breeding ground for illusionists. Who’s really real? She ponders then laughs. I see through it all and that’s why I only attract the occasional authentic being.