...and action

Acting like an adult is very different from being one. Acting is a paradox in itself; to live in another shell, free of oneself yet, simultaneously, to be hidden and silenced, tucked away like an insecurity. Like a bit of yeast, the suffocation works through it all and I'm left with an undesirable silence. Just silence. The baby yearns to be seen and touched, but you can't even hear it.

Perhaps this freedom should receive a nominee. An inception in waking hours, maliciously wrapping its webs tighter and tighter 'round, while the poison gives a sense of a cold relief when it's really, killing so softly.


When the baby fidgets or dares to make a peep, the venom doubles and there's really no choice but to play dead or revert back to the obedient fetus, voiceless but breathing. Eating, drinking, listening, soaking up everything with no filter. 


I am my own darkness. The malefactor of my own demise and suffocation. 


*


Or, perhaps every human being is constantly on set for his or her role as an adult. The possibility itself is comforting or easier to cope with at the least.