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27 December 2012 @ 04:49 pm
the smell of damage  
I am surrounded by scraps of my own useless handwriting and documents I've printed in triplicate because I can't remember where I've put them.

Every door is "DO NOT ENTER" and locked from the other side.

I have never (a lie, I have) felt so utterly trapped by my life. This is in part because I've lived in the same house far too long and have few realistic methods of escaping it. It is in part because I've been working the same job far too long and can't think of one feasible exit strategy. It is in part because I am, have always been (well, except when I am in a good mood) aware of how sheer, finite, and vulnerable all of our illusions are. Security. Safety. Warmth. Support. Every one of them is easily broken, easily destroyed.

So if I were to craft a bomb, and blow an exit tall and wide out the side of this claustrophobic little hole I'm currently inhabiting, I know without any doubts that I would simply be left alone in a pile of smoldering rubble, the objects and obligations and obsessions that currently bind me warped and melted but no less real, simply haunting and taunting from their respective piles.

I would clean it up, as best as anyone could, and go back about my life with ghosts of habits and fragments of fears and sad distored halves of relationships, and the smell of damage would never dissipate.