There is this guilt that piles up from who knows where. It billows and brews and bubbles to the surface whenever I feel like I am making strides. And to be honest, I am not sure I could live without it. It honors my name and fashions my attire. Call it what you will, but it has become an appendage I have no ability to amputate. I am stuck with this guilt.
My guilt is transformative and fluid. It flows from being two hands pressing in on my temples to an earthquake under the feet to a black hole pulling me in. And sometimes, on those nights where I can’t move my body from my bed, I smile. I smile at how there is no where for me to go, no need for the French army to save Toledo. My guilt is a bully, but no more than the demons that haunt Theo Decker.
I often find myself losing my thoughts in some headphone-induced coma. I find myself scratching the surface of the black clouds, gliding my hand over their menacing fluff. I let the singers sing me to sleep, lolling my feelings into whisky numb. It is an odd notion to consider the insignificance of the clouds to the stars, but that is how I feel in relation to the words and chords that hold my hand as I scour the trapeze. I’ll get across.
If you close your eyes, just for a couple seconds, you can picture the guilt swelling in as if on a conveyor belt. You can picture the birds fleeing the onslaught, calling to each other to spread the message: we must go. And there I stand, as the world turns around me, chest out, chin back, hands outstretched at my waste, feet cemented to the earth. In that moment, I try to remember that I am lying in my bed. I try to remember that this entire dream is a whispering ghost, that my guilt is nothing but a whispering ghost.