The metaphorical, weighted thud of my inaction is no less a wholly physical burden than the scars that eventuated from it.  I fear at times (and ever more as the present days continue and come to their eventual close), that I will be enveloped in it completely.  That I will become encased in all that I am not, in all that I am incapable of being, saying, achieving.  This is no way to live, though I lament that it is the only way I have ever known.  The more I struggle to regain some semblance of control, the quicker it appears to be snatched from my feeble grasp.  I am constantly aware of my own mortality, of what an insufferable cunt I am.