THIS THING

There is this thing that oppresses me.

It follows me day and night, never missing the opportunity to pour scorn upon me when I falter in either word or step. I know not from whence it came or why it has chosen me as a vehicle for its contempt. During daylight hours it affects an appearance verging on transparent and seems to hover behind me.  As darkness approaches it becomes more agitated, sometimes flitting around like a bat, sometimes skulking in the shadows like a large rodent.  As night falls, it becomes bolder, brushing against me from time to time, quite aggressively it must be said. Its greatest pleasure seems to lie in nudging me as I attempt to complete some delicate task like lifting a cup of tea to my lips or lighting my pipe. On the occasions that my frustration overcomes me and I attempt to grab it, it has little trouble floating away out of range and its coarse laughter is heightened at my futile attempts to mete out the punishment which its behaviour deserves.

Perhaps one day it will find a new object of opprobrium and leave me to my own company, but I feel that somehow our destinies are inextricably linked and that this creature, whatever it is, has been put on this earth with the sole purpose of tormenting me. Its continued presence in my life has prevented me from maintaining lasting relationships or finding employment suitable to my intellect and disposition.  My family members, in an effort to save themselves from sharing in my distress, have disowned me, and polite society never tolerates me for long once I have mentioned this thing which afflicts me. Would that I could shed, or at least share, this burden.   

I have undertaken various ruses by which to separate we two, like passing rapidly through revolving doors or swimming considerable distances underwater, but it is of no use; this monster who hates me so much will not suffer itself to be parted from me under any circumstances. How miserable its existence must be, condemned to spend every hour day and night with a man, if I can still call myself such, whom it despises from head to toe. My only remaining hope is that we can, somehow, settle our differences and reach some king of accommodation whereby we agree to tolerate each other.  Should this lead to a gradual thawing of our relations, we may in the fullness of time reach a point where the occasional game of whist becomes a not unpleasant possibility. For now, though, the wounds are too raw and the hurt too real.

There is this thing that oppresses me.

I am this thing that oppresses it.