[INT; Alt’s Brain. Good and Bad are standing on opposite sides of a very large sinkhole, which has unexpectedly appeared in a vital part of the organisation structure. They stare at each other with uncertainty.]
BAD: Nope, this definitely wasn’t here yesterday.
GOOD: Wonder how much stuff we’ve lost down there…
[From the darkness of the hole there is movement, then a small, hesitant voice calls up.]
DREAD: Er… is there any chance of a rope…?
It’s not been a great week. I’m behind, but am determined to get everything back to a semblance of normality as quickly as possible. It would help if I didn’t have this constant, nagging fear at the back of my mind that there’s really no point, because if there was only one reader total on my blog last week, why exactly am I bothering?
One day, that could all change, but if I don’t try, how will I know?
Imposter Syndrome is a bitch.
Between breaths, dread slides,
hand to shoulder, slightest pressure
restrict movement, arrest progress
perfect assassin, silent killer.
I will prevent, hold back, disarm
progression, confidence, belief
this life, not yours, penance made
each joy, removed, destroyed.
Hole opens beneath, hope swallowed, receding faith, destruction
sucked downwards, spat outwards, crushed beneath, opened up:
depression formed, weathered front, low pressure, happiness drowned…