If I had to describe mine, I would say that it was made of flames, but little flames, the kind that would lick my bones in an almost gentle way. It would be light orange along my limbs and warm at my fingertips, but deep blue around my heart, swirling like a dragon that is unraveling its body.
I think I was born with this intense need to be perfect, for the whole world to be perfect, and knowing that neither will ever be anything close to this fantasy expectation fills me with this strange cousin of guilt, a dissatisfaction for which I don't know where to put the blame. Sometimes I put the blame all on myself and I feel as if I am dripping with thick, black paint that I can't wipe off.
Are you ever startled by your own breathing? Sometimes I become so acutely aware of the action which keeps me alive that I need to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling because I am afraid that my own body won't remember how to do it without my instruction. During times like these I can feel the dragon hissing and spitting, and wonder if I've gone crazy, and I fear that I will erupt in the flames of my own soul.
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