Drifiting to Pessimism...

I’m closed in.
Suffocating.
A tight clasp wrapped around my neck;
fingers grip so tight, I cannot breathe.
I cannot move.
I only stare.

My eyes are shocked,
stunned as these crazed events unfold in front on them.
When did this happen?
How did it begin?
What has led to this moment?
The understanding is elusive,
The meaning fading, falling, finishing...diminishing.

This is the beginning of philosophy,
of the facts and of the figures,
of the ideas and the dreams that are hidden,
hidden by the antagonists,
by the villains,
by the enemies,
by ghosts and ghouls.
All things gothic, all things horrific and sickeningly terrific...it makes my heart sick.

You, everyone, everything;
the past, present, even the future.
Even me....
All the antagonists have gathered at my gates,
I stand alone,
defenceless and without a friend, no one to console me,
no one to fight with me;
I am the sole protagonist in this story;
a lone hero in a story of morality and mortality;
of all things right and wrong, of all things living and of all things deceased.
What am I to do?

I am no hero.
I cannot save myself from my predicament.
It's cold and I am isolated,
the ice has pierced my heart.

In this moment of desperation; the hands still wrapped around my throat,
I find my thoughts drifting.
Drifting to pessimism...
Am I the villain?
The thought plagues my mind and the hands; they grip tighter.
They laugh, the darkly terrifying space in front of my eyes shudders.
I remain motionless.
I stand aware but I do not fight.
My mind too full of thoughts over the heroes and villains;
the one's who belong in the stories of morality and mortality;
of all things right and wrong, of all things living and of all things deceased.

My eyes have glazed over, no longer reacting,
no longer fearing and staring;
no longer providing the enemy the sadistic pleasure they have felt.
I choke and gasp for air,
I chug the deliciously empty space like it is the sweetest, richest substance;
the substance of heroes...
I have no claim to such a thing.
I spit it back.

I am released.
I can breathe.
My throat is free;
nothing restricts my movement.
I settle down, back against the wall,
I can move...
but I feel fear,
I feel a worry and I find myself believing...
I do not deserve this freedom.