The Hermit Crab

I will stop sometimes, stop whatever I'm doing, and remember. It will creep up on me, sometimes at the most unexpected of times, usually I feel the pang about to hit. And yet, it's unavoidable. I might try to quickly flood my mind with images, with happy thoughts, as I always had. But instinctively I think happy thoughts and think you, and I stop for a moment to chuckle at the ineffective attempt.

I will stop sometimes, and feel. Take a trip down memory lane, and wonder how I would have felt, to know it'd be my last happy memory with you. For the tough exterior I present, the inside is uncharacteristically soft, weak and vulnerable, like a hermit crab.

And now I sit there, at the bottom of the sea, my raw skin adjusting to the feel of having no comfort. But I adjust, and distract myself, swaying to and fro in my self hypnosis of thought. But I'll stop sometimes and look at my old shell, how enticing it looks, how soft I feel, how much I yearn the once abundant comfort. I'm a bit of a collector. I make a habit of it, to take photos, store memories, little shiny trinkets to add to my nest. Now I perch on a neighbouring branch, close enough to look back, and yet knowing the shine has dulled, and yet remains sharp, cutting deep and often, a reminder of what could have been.

And now I sit here, in my chair, rocking back and forth, my thoughts oozing out. I've found another method, another way to avoid the pang, sometimes. But sometimes it will sneak behind me, and hide in my shadows, a slow untraceable burn. The smallest of reminders, a love song, the mention of a book, the thought of ice-cream, and the rock will roll down the hill, right over me. And once I've recovered, I will roll it back up, and wait, the inevitable inescapable.

The thoughts are splattered on this page, and yet I know I am fully understood. I feel so lonely, and yet, I know I am not alone; you are here reading this after all. But I have not written this for you. This is my new shell, for now. Perhaps I will find another, to make new memories, new happy memories, to become my drug, to mask the pain, an addiction. Or perhaps I won't, bare skinned at the bottom of the sea. But I will take some solace in knowing when I feel the pain returning, I can pick up the pen, and spray my ink across the page, wrapping my wounds in words and parchment. In knowing you can read this, read me, my story written across my body, and knowing this skin can not be cut. These words are my own, my message to myself, my skin, my shell.