Photo by Kyle Cleveland on Unsplash

Walking on Egg Shells

I dare not step on them…

I teeter on the brink of depression. Alcoholism. Suicide. Anxiety that’s all-consuming. Psychosis. Normalcy that’s not the norm for me. Societal deformities. Freakish areas of grays and blacks and blues and… reds.

I see the egg shells.

They surround me in my mind, my friends, my environment, my frequent habits, my dreams (nightmares, more like), my closets, my car, my memories, my past life, my future goals.

I see them everywhere, and it’s as if they’re shards of glass about to cut me at any moment.

any moment

Sometimes? I avoid them at all costs, bouncing from cushion to cushion as if a kid pretending to play the game “lava” again.

Sometimes? I pick up one of those shells (shards of glass) and feel the pain it causes me and my mind and my soul and my essence.

I dare not step any longer on the egg shells surrounding me, but when I’m carrying weight too heavy to handle alone, I crumble beneath myself, directly atop these fucking egg shells.

They crack and wreak mayhem on my life, like the beginning of death might sound inside this humanly world we call forward to perception and truth and versions and deceit and beauty and horror.