Sometimes I feel as if my breathing is only shallow and light. I am only using half my lungs. I breathe rapidly and without enjoying the sensation – in, out, in, out. All of my life is walked on tippy-toes with my finger to my lips, as if I’m afraid to wake the beast.
There is a beast. He’s slumbering right now. I actually quite like the beast. It reminds me of Maurice Sendak’s ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, all confident pen drawings and tea-stained colours. The beast is curled up on the carpet, with it’s legs tangled round the legs of the dining room table. It’s kind of snoring lightly with that smell of old teeth and comfortable fug. I feel like patting it.
But if I wake the beast, it stirs and stretches.The beast is all honesty and impatience. The beast yawns idly at me, and without blinking looks straight into me with those yellow eyes and asks without speaking ‘so why are you still here?’
My fear is not of the beast.
My fear is of my answer, when I say “I don’t know”.
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