Devils in My Backpack
When I finally convince myself to come back down from the peak of my disastrous interactions with myself, it’s as if the solid ground beneath my feet becomes nothing more than bear traps, pulling me back down, step by painful step, to reality.
Repacking all my frustrations, and fears and insecurities and placing them neatly in the sack upon my back, I begin to feel the pressure of a million headaches and physical confrontations with the darkest part of my soul press against my spine.
And then there are my eyelids: dry and coarse against the globes of my eyes. And with each breath I am finally able to catch, I feel it… the exhaustion that only sobs can bring. And light sensitivities still play concertos along my bleached sight… but it is glorious to see the sun.
It’s not the sunlight of those who press their existence into molds of happiness and normalcy, bright and airy, sliding effortlessly across the sky. These are the rays of apology from a dimmed sun of personal faith, and it caresses my cheeks and tells me that while night is not far off, today I can sleep in the warmer shadows and feel whole once again, even while the devils in my backpack craft a new pin prick of deceit.