Take That

I've wasted so much time spinning silken threads of camouflage and deceit that they have danced themselves around me, closer and closer, like in the first blush of love, carefully then callously till they bind me in their grip---a Mummy of our generation.

I ache to turn my back on it, but I can't. If I did, it would be like stepping out of a painting with the Real Me caught in the time warp while only an impression walks away.

'Cheater', you'd hiss convulsively.

Maybe, maybe.

'I might grow into the impression though', I'd tell you defensively.

'You won't', you'd say, much too fast for my liking, 'You'd only be a shell of yourself, devoid of emotion and masks and the drama that you feed on, your addiction.'

My addiction is beginning to tighten its chokehold around me. It has me paralysed and the only reason I can see is because I have learnt to close my eyes.

'You won't be able to function without it', you'd mutter prophetically, 'You'll waste away with nothing to hold on to.'

Shedding skin doesn't hurt, does it?

'No one wants to talk to a shadow', you'd taunt, 'You're in the midst of it all, a main character, a beautiful one a wild one. Why leave?'

Why indeed?

Then it hits me.

'You're jealous.', I'd gasp in wonderment, ' You've lost the choice.'

I choose.

The Mummy moans.

You fall back into the silken threads of camouflage and deceit that at one time, seduced you into thinking they were real.

I'm limping, running, soaring away. Breaking free.

You, you can't even see.