Toxic vat of fear.

She can’t do this. Waking again with heavy feelings of not being good enough, she got side-swiped, knocked to the ground by an article she read this weekend. The hounds of memories past, she is that teenage girl again brought to her knees by the cool girl sneering at her supposed lack, laughing behind her back at any attempt of self-expression. Adding to this weight, or because of it, is the parched exhaustion, a middle-of-the-marathon moment, a feeling like she can’t go on. Wracked with feelings of boredom and restlessness, a strong sense of this was a ridiculous idea, the people on the imagined sidelines laughing at her as she limps past. Are these the heavy howls of imposter syndrome, injuries from the slashing violence of comparison, at its core a toxic vat of fear, or is it her subconscious struggling to the surface to tell her the truth, enough stop this nonsense, it is time to change course?