Sketch 1The buzzing has been constant for so many years I can barely hear it. A doubtful tinnitus. A constant humming, like the electricity in the walls and the distant traffic in a place I’ve lived forever.

Am I intruding on this conversation? Are they flinching from my smell? Can they see me picking my eyes, my hair, my skin?

Is it thinking too much of myself to assume others have crowd funded this hate on my behalf. When I can do it all myself.

Too much, too little, too me, too much. Apologise before you speak. Speak too much then speak some more to say you’re sorry.

Like a mosquito somewhere in a dark room. It’s not clear, but it’s definitely there.  And when it shows itself to your ears, you remember what it is. It bites. And it will.

And when it bites, you create two. And four. And eight. And on and on and one more creates a swarm that you can’t see through.

I can hear the electricity in the walls. I can hear the distant traffic. I can hear the jibes. They’re coming from them, and them, and them. Passing the baton from mosquito to moth to spider to a darkness that’s alive and moving as fast as my mind. There’s no such thing as nothing. Dread. It’s telling me something.

How can you seek solace – when you don’t know if you’re running from them, or from yourself?

I know what doubt is. But I still doubt its existence.


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