My Cardboard Balcony

And It Is Fragile by Belinda Roddie Human spirit is the ability to face the uncertainty of the future with curiosity and optimism. It is the belief that problems can be solved, differences resolved. It is a type of confidence. And it is fragile. - Bernard Beckett, Genesis *** I don't care much for music these days. Or paintings, or dancing, or even stories. The sound of pages turning upsets me now. It creates a visceral reaction that can only be described as, "My guts are being turned inside out with a fork." My colleagues tell me that my apathy toward all things creative is a side effect of the medication I'm taking, which is a supplement to the initial inoculation I received. They've informed me that they are working on a booster that could potentially open my mind back up to more poetic and artistic endeavors again. I don't know. The pills I have now do help with the trauma, and the flashbacks. Though not the noises that trigger both. Fortun...

She didn't attack me physically, but she did verbally eviscerate me. She used every piece of vocabulary she had learned since she was a child. She relied on insults provided by Shakespeare and other playwrights. She dug so deeply into me using language that the words left small cuts everywhere - like paper slices across my skin. When she was done, I was sitting on the floor, staring out into space. I wanted to be anywhere but there. Any time but now.