In the dusty attic space of my psyche, amid the trunks of dormant traits and bric-a-brac of my subconscious, a grubby tidemark stains the walls, hovering above the plimsoll line of conscience. Evidence that the oily waters of iniquity once flooded this place, washing away all noble intent and scrupulous virtue. Though the floodwater has abated, and the grime of unconscionable deeds has been scoured away by the agents of regret. The scene is constantly under threat from the swollen river of transgression. When the torrent intensifies I steel myself, sandbag the doorways and windows and retreat to the moral high ground. Monsoons of weakness create this deluge aspects of my persona that I hide away, imprisoned like a disfigured Victorian relative or my mirror image encased in an iron mask. For if my seraph cast her eyes upon the storm I would be cast adrift to drown in misdemeanour bereft of the strength that keeps me anchored. |