The Heavy Weight of Little Things

It’s often my lack of choice, combined with my silenced voice that turns the small issues in my life into raging beasts. A single raindrop would not be a storm were it not for someone counting on a sunny day. A paper cut would not be an injury were someone not dependent on a perfect hand.

Here I sit in a world that I’ve created for myself, yet my voice, my flavour, and my mind lie hidden in this contrived scene. Where am I? I know I exist in some state of mind and soul, yet I do not see myself, or any representation there of in this space. I feel lost and consumed simultaneously.

The decision of where to hang a painting, or even which painting should hang is not mine to express. The selection of furniture is not mine to decide. The mattress up one which I attempt to rest my aching soul is not mine to choose.

I lack a voice. I lack the power of choice.

What flows through the house as expenses and savings is out of my reach. I am blind to the reports, and deaf to the discussions. I am essentially locked out of my own home, although it appears I live here as much as the person beside me.

Living, no. Surviving; barely.

It’s the weight of the little things. Those so insignificant that one would never stop to care if one was involved in the decision, or not, that has begun to burden me. I fear that I will NEVER be able to control the larger issues in my life, so now I must focus on the small indiscretions that offend my path. I must pick the battles of a mouse, rather than those of the lioness that I am.

From dawn until dusk, I battle to remove my muzzle and to replace my cuffed hands with the gloves of a fighter. I’ve tainted the nectar of my words with venom. I’ve taken control of my body. All that is left is to turn my squeak into a roar, my nip into a bite, and my wave into a fight.

I. Will. Do. This. I will wake one day with a voice that is heard, a soul that is seen, and a place that is my sanctuary!

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