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(I love metaphors and I find comfort in creating things. I hope you enjoy.)


I don't remember exaxtly when the first crack in the floor appeared. Maybe it was always there, hidden just beneath a rug. Maybe I never looked too closely at the floor. After all, it's just the floor. It felt sturdy enough that I never thought about it.

One day, a day I couldn't even name, I looked at the floor. I dont know why I looked. Tiny spider webbed cracks spread across the room. Barely visible, but definitely there. I pressed my weight onto a crack. The floor didn't shift or squeak. The floor didn't groan as I leaned onto the crack. It was firm, solid. I straightened myself up and shrugged. I pulled the rug over the more prominent cracks and went about my business.

Time passed and I forgot once again about the floor. The walls and doorways demanded much more attention. New coats of paint, greased hinges. Constant maintenance I was happy to provide. As I reach up with my paintbrush I stumble to the ground. I look at the floor and the cracks are everywhere. Deeper, more jagged than the ones before. I panic, but compose myself. It's just some cracks. The house will settle soon and they'll stop.

I order more rugs to cover the cracks. For a time it works, the soft plush squares disguising the crevices. The floor has started to creak when I walk across it. I turn up the volume in my headphones. Sometimes floors creak. It's nothing to worry about.

Other people have had cracks. Some even have holes in their floor. I'm friends with many. They say they always knew their room was wrong so they broke their floor and found a new room, one that is perfect for them. But that isn't me. I just have a few cracks.

I wake up to a hole in the floor. No longer a crack, a hole that leads to somewhere I can't see. The colorful rug that had covered the crack is gone, fallen through to the unknown. I fully panic as I inspect the hole. I don't know what to do. I've never had a damaged floor before. I don't know what to do so I get another larger rug and cover the hole. I remind myself not to step there.

Every morning more holes appear. I get more rugs, larger and more garish in design. These could hide any sized hole.  The room looks ok, but I hop space to space now to avoid the holes.

The holes have made painting the walls and fixing the doors nearly impossible. They are too large to cover with rugs. I stare down at the darkness. What's down there? Is it another room? I begin to lean forward but quickly pull myself back. I can't leave my room. I have too much to fix, too much to do. I've been here forever and I cannot leave.

I write this as I hang from a chandelier. The floor vanished days ago. I'm so tired of hanging on. My grip is slipping, my exhaustion and anger swirl into an unknown cry. I want to let go. Go into the abyss that was meant to take me. But I'm so scared.

Because who will I be once I fall in?

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