In fiction, the conflict is not always external.
I know a monster, and its name is stress. I know it like a friend, like a lover. It caresses my brain, tugging at the synapses. It asks me again, and again, and again to come to bed, to take a shower with it. It makes my head go weary when I ignore it.
My stress is never satisfied. No matter what we agree to do, it always just wants to move on to the next thing. My stress plans entire days for me, and then is angry when I break its schedule.
My stress is intimate, it makes my heart beat so fast, and my lips go dry. I gulp in air, whenever my stress is close. It fills my eyes with itself, and some days, it is all I can see.
My stress is hungry, and loves to eat. It has a sweet tooth, my stress. It eats sugars and fats, but it never gains a pound.
My stress is expensive, always wanting more than I have. Money, energy, time. My stress wants all of me.
My stress some days, is all I have. I don’t know what I would do without my stress. What I would be without it. How I would live without it.
The very idea, fills me with it.
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