Between the Monster and the Bottomless Pit

It is icy. The thickness of the glass around the snow globe varies from so solid a bullet would barely crack the outer surface to fragile but frosted. The stillness is the kind that raises the hairs on the back of my neck, the kind that leaves one afraid to look around for fear of what might be seen. It is irrational. Whatever is lurking out of sight is there whether we look at or not, but it is as though as far as the mind is concerned, seeing it makes it real. Around me the ice crystals in the crevices of the trees crackle. The trees themselves stand, motionless containers for that agitated energy.
I have not been still. I have work a rut in the frozen ground with my hurried steps forwards and hasty retreats. I have ground smooth circles where I’ve spun on the spot uncertain of my direction. There is a pile of bricks and timbers, that will become the foundation of my library. They have gone from being untouched to being tossed in one direction and then another over the past couple of weeks. The air inside my snow globe might hang still, but I no longer can. I feel overwhelmed. That sense of being on the brink of a precipice, of there being a monster lurking just out of sight is growing stronger. The monster knows I’m aware of it now, if I wait for too long I will be devoured. Yet if I move too fast, I will lose my footing and plunge over the edge of the precipice.
What I need is to find that unfamiliar notion of a middle ground. While I have learned to compromise with other people, the idea of doing so with my own mind is as alien as ever. I am too impatient to take the longer route around when running straight forwards brings more immediate results. It seems not to matter how many times I slip and fall back, I still chose to run rather than pace myself, be consistent and reach the point I’m aiming for. At present the monster and the precipice relate to food. I restrict, I shrink. I eat, but to eat means to binge, so I grow, even if only slightly by other people’s eyes, it is huge to me. So it goes on, the path sloping vaguely downwards, but with repeated trips back up, so that the same stretch is transverse four, five, six times before being conquered. In the week I am starving and exhausted, but I can hold my own gaze in the mirror. At the weekends, when I binge, I am miserable and ashamed.

There is a middle way. As a new day and a new month dawn, I will try to accept fear that I will shrink no further and instead of flipping the switch to the other extreme, I will move slowly. I can eat more in the week than I have been. I can eat less at the weekends. I can find a balance and for now, just for now, while I wait for better guidance, I can focus on that alone and not worry over whether I am growing or shrinking. 
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To Slay the Jabberwocky

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. The holidays have ended. The cold has finally spread its frosted fingers and it is taking me sometime to settle back into the routine of University. Quite simply, I am still tired. I could have slept away those four weeks and then had Christmas, then maybe I would feel more prepared. It seems I’m not alone in feeling that way. With that in mind, I will keep this brief. There have been a few subtle but rather interesting changes to the snow globe lately. The major thing of note is the change to the ever present glass. Given how things have been lately, I have been spaced out, I have felt distanced, but it is a different kind of distance to the bullet proof thickness of a year ago. The glass is thinner, still a barrier protecting me from the outside. Still a cage trapping me in my own bubble, but one which, at times allows some interplay. This sensation of being spaced out and removed, is less the glass thickening and more the glass frosting over. The dusting of snow is both within and without my globe at the moment.

The hollow tree I have been nesting in over winter has split. I am exposed in the snow. I fashioned myself a trowel from a piece of rock and attempted to chisel a burrow in the icy ground between the roots of a tree. Some attempt at shelter. It’s funny, I want so badly to start building up my library, to face those things that stand in my way, yet at the same time I’m trying so hard to hold on to them ever tighter. Bit by bit the walls of my cottage were chipped away until they crumbled. Instead of facing the creatures released from the ruins then, I took shelter in the hollow tree. Eventually that too caved in, leaving me utterly exposed and still, my secrets voiced, my impulse is to seek shelter, to bury myself rather than turn and risk a battle I could lose. Spring will come, the bark of the tree behind me whispers. You’ll reach that perfect number, my mind murmurs. Then….

Spring will come. The ground will thaw. My weight will drop. Then, then I will slay the Jabberwocky.