It begins and you don’t know quite what to make of it. It
shows up one day, you don’t really know when but it’s just there. And now you
have to live with it, deal with it, learn to know it. It spreads, amorphous,
encompassing you, harvesting your body, using it, wasting it, like weeds. A
malaise, a vulgarity, a realization, an acceptance, a tolerance. You believe it
can’t sustain itself, but it thrives, defying your every annoyance, itching,
clawing at you, begging for your attention. It makes you conscious, makes you
look around, look to see if people are watching, gnawing, whispering, reminding
you of its presence. It mocks you with its false mortality, a self replenishing
density sprung from the fountain of youth itself. Its unsightly, putrid
tentacles reaching out to conquer previously pristine, untouched lands, coming
under the influence creating veritable swamplands, their innocence stripped. A
coarseness it doesn’t attempt to disguise coiled in unceasing cowardice, unfriendable
in every sense. An arrogance that belies its stature, filling you with feelings
of contempt and self loathing, beseeching you to take action, to do something
about it, but it’s part of you, borne out of you, you and it are one.
