The creature unbotheredly flops around inadequately. No question or criticism is directed at it’s movements. The sporadic uncoordinated crawls, sprawls and struggles get it nowhere, fueled purely by instinct. There’s no use for crutches when there is no goal not being met - there’s no goal in the first place.

I can feel it’s squirms through my skin, every sensation making the question of how many layers separate us resurface: Is it really deep down? Or more surface level than I realise?

How did it get there? Was it always there? Did it grow over time from when I couldn’t notice to now when its painfully noticeable? Will it grow out? Do I facilitate it? KIll it? Ignore it? Is it alien? Or a part of me? Am I alien? Every time I say to myself I won’t let it be a problem again, I remember this promise again shortly after when I break it. Does that mean my goal should really be finding a way to co-exist with it? I don’t want to. I don’t like it. I hate it. I don’t want anything to do with it.

Why is it at home in me? Am I the perfect salinity? Viscosity? I only have questions and it will never answer me. All I can do is everything I can do to improve the situation. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be at peace with it at this point. Maybe that's the point. Maybe it is my peacelessness. I just don’t like it and it always resurfaces in my moments of unsuspect. It’s like the opposite side of the Annebush coin.