To care or not to care, that is the dilemma. Every day I am reminded of you and what you are. Like a tick, you bit into me undetected, slowly draining me of blood and weakening my systems. Do I care? For if I care is that not admitting the shame of the bite? That I walked into the forest, got lost, and struggled to come back? Or do I choose to not care, and allow you to slowly but surely suck every last fiber of my sanity into your dreamed up body. Surely, if I choose to forget, the pain will cease leaving me only to build up with the ruins you left me in. Surely, this won’t last longer than a couple of months before you’re gone from my home? Soon I’ll be back, confident and strong, with a mind as clear as ice, and passion burning in my heart like fire. But the times have passed, and the trees have grown thick. My blood is infected without the slightest chance of a donor because nobody will ever be my type. Paranoia, what a funny word, a jester, that makes it through life only relying on the enjoyment of others fervently declining each support for the fear that they are fake. A sickness, a madness, a spiral of dread, caught in the bushes and left for dead. Thorns cut deep in a paralyzing move, that leaves no trace but the unnoticeable wound. Nothing is real, the backup is fake. Each kind word fabricated for their own sake. They worry, but why? Can you not see there is nothing wrong but you? The jester keeps dancing, without knowing what for. As if dancing will ever help him find what he’s dying for. Why am I like this, what left me this way? Why do they torture me, leaving me to slowly decay? Their words mean nothing, their complements gone. Pity, pity, guilt and beyond. Where did you go? Have two years not passed since you experimented in the forest? When will you return? Or are you not back? Lost in questions with no end, no answers. How fun would the first 15 seconds be when you fall?
This is dumb, that should’ve been said. Think, think, and try to work this out. Slowly but surely the fire is put out, however, the damage will be forever done. The passion is gone, the confidence shattered. As if woken from a fever dream I’m left with nothing but the drunken remains of a torn-up house with only myself to blame. Where did this come from, this everlasting nightmare? I reach to my neck and find the culprit. A tick. With a hesitant tug, I finally release myself from its stealthy, deadly, and sickening grasp, leaving me with nothing, no emotions to build off of. Nothing but ruins, a shattered image of my past self. Which begs the question. To try or not to try? To try requires effort, and a dip into the past which I worked so hard to escape, but I’ll have the hope that my house will be remade. To give up, and lie in a pit of unfeeling calm, leaving me empty with no sadness, but no contentment either. I’m okay now, but what shall I do? To try or not to try, that is the dilemma.