Miss S. Saphirest.

Her letters.

To whomever it may concern,
Supposedly it just happens again, and now it is as dull and as much an annoyance as a slight and reoccurring toothache or rash. But when does an emotion become something like a rising eczema? Of all the years I have moved on and moved on and on and so forth have I now come to a suitable stop at which I am pleased to stay, and this emotion may inbed itself at my side. Niggling and prying. It is a difficult concept to put forward in word, but apparently, and happily, i do that well enough.
And I am aware of it's presence, beside/around/upon me, and it's trying not to get my point through, such as a child might constantly wail at it's mother as she attempts communicate the days events and rows to her much missed friend, whom she rarely sees due to said child and how it keeps her occupied. And it does.
I am always occupied with it. Like the voice in the back of the head of a murderer, or a worrier who misplaced a key he didn't much need.
Of course, I am not saying I am ill. Be I far from such a thing and thankfully glad so.
But I am distracted, it would seem. I do perform and then suddenly judge myself for whatever action I have taken, somehow lashing out at my own doing with the sly range of a snake, attempting to drag back in what cannot be undone. And yet my face sits still in this moment. And ponders.
My conclusion of the slight wrong that is with myself, is that I am indeed, or at least this emotion as it were, is my own worst enemy. And through the days that I try and blast it away and be 'careless' as the rest, it simply lingers and waits upon any moment of a bring-down. And what an event that turns to be.
For I have found that it waits in my stomach, it sleeps there and it is motionless. It does nothing but waits upon the wake up, and when those words are born, any of which may drag down to my pits, it stirs slowly and widely. Stretches out so that my stomach lurches and becomes suddenly aware that it is heavy, and my heart seems to be singing a rhythm against it if at all possible; It scratches with it stretch at the gentle lining of my scarred stomach, causing a rush of cold and stale adrenalin to pass through my skin, and redden my pale face.
It wants me to feel this way.

Fighting it alone is dull, and so I share, I write this letter in the hope that it may reach forgiving eyes who see beyond natural reality and believe in such a beast that might crawl about my veins. I have become nothing but an underseeing wreck in my spare time, and the pale face that sees the world is aging because of it.
I must banish it, perhaps simply control it. Use it for my own use? Anything, is what I plead. The only thing I find standing in my way, is myself. And i detest it greatly.

I end by reminding myself that I indeed have achievements, and that though they are not perhaps what may impress nor bother others, they are mine, and in my life they are what I have. They propel me forward into others, I hope, should this beast not label the rest of my doings 'Unworthy'.

Signed (In ink signature);