childhood fears

There is always this one spot I tend to overlook. With time, I forgot it even existed; and with more time it became invisible. I must have been avoiding one big black hole and I see myself spinning around it; this black hole had everything to do with my unfinished activities. It has to do with why I am scared so suddenly and why I freeze ahead of a big explosive revelation, and why I skip the ending and want to quickly wrap up and leave everything and announce my conclusion prematurely. One day I had the guts to examine it: I found a bag that contained all my childhood fears and that explained my lack of confidence in various domains. The black hole matured with me and changed shapes so I wouldn’t recognize it, like a mole on my thigh, adjusting itself to my changing skin tone. It was the closest to me, and acting like part of me, my ally. I had been praising it and telling it all my secrets.. In fact it was listening all the time to everything around me. It became ME. Sometimes this black hole gets larger than me. It interrupts me, edits my words, and moods, dictates with compassion my communications, gives its opinions and has a say in all my actions and transactions. Whenever I try to face my fears it acts like a warrior. But I know it was just acting, since fear is its primary ingredient. With time its composition became more complex: it turned into a mole by stealing my redundant nerves as thread with which to weave for itself a web in my inner core. It chooses happy color threads to cover its ugly constitution. Each faulted and weak argument I made was the result of its very making.. It was spiffing fear in my psyche and taming down any wave of high happiness; it was behind my sudden coolness right before a supposed explosion. I am not sure how we became friends. I thought it was saving me. Even now, it is typing some of these words with me, choosing safer diplomatic versions from the thesaurus of pain. It makes me feel safe. I am so sorry. It says better safe than explosive. When I try to resort to writing, it interjects metaphors not exactly stemming from a poetic edge as you may think, but rather a remix imposed on me by It.. It tames my similes, and curbs my metaphors while making sure I dance around the truth of what I want to say. There are two sheets of music one behind the other: one for the singer and one for the musician. It is Saturday for one, and Monday for the other. I will tell you all about this when she goes to sleep. In the meantime, treat all this just as another poem.