Elegiac is not always silent. Often I find that I have begun again to pay attention to its whisperings in my inner ear.
They are so subtle.
Yet the words resound loudly within, reverberating against Id’s fragility. They feed the loudspeaker of negativity in my head.
I am pretty hard on myself. I set impossibly high expectations and tumble to the inevitable crash when they are not reached. My mind cycles through the litany of what ifs.
I stand outside myself and critique my latest interaction. Did I mispeak? Why did I act like that? Why I am not where I think I should be?
I was not good enough.
I am never good enough.
I cannot let what happened simply be.
I have confused discontent with stagnancy.
I am not gentle with myself.
My dreams have become a weight upon my soul.
I am, as Langston described, a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.