The Spider

It is a small spider. I feel it running on my neck, down to my ankles, the whole day, the whole night.

Everywhere I turn, that damn spider is there. It tickles my body and my brain. All the time, I fear it might get lost in my hair.

My body wriggles, my arms stretch, my hands catch the air. He is quicker. I strangle the void out of rage, nails cutting my skin. Bruised and scratched I bite my lips and there he goes again. He is behind my knee, no he is running up my hips, up my nose, across my forehead. I feel him between my toes.

Everyday, everyday I try. I even faced a mirror, but nothing. My own body I slap and I hit and I punch and I scratch and I bite and I bruise, again, again and again. Everyday, everyday.

Today I realized he is weaving a thread. Around my memory. All life dies the moment it is lived, I am immobilized in the present.

Today I realized he is weaving a thread. Around my perceptions, around my sensations, emotions, feelings. I am frozen in indifference. Is he still running?

His thread suffocates me, but I have no senses to feel my memories having me clinging to life, in desperation.

And to think I have always loved spiders.

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