The Critic

silhouette of a man in window

Photo by D. Tong on Pexels.com

 

It was his job to be the critic.

He’d taken it on when he was but a child and there was naught by chaos all around him.

Criticizing was a way to put some order into madness, to have at least the illusion of control.

Not that he’d criticize them openly and risk the switch or belt or backhand or the things that were … well … worse.

But criticize he did.

Mostly himself.

At first as practice.

Then as habit.

Then as something he would do without even a pause to think.

Offer a knifing critic.

Of his actions. Of his wishes. Of his hopes. His thoughts. His dreams.

What had began as coping, turned a prison.

And the jailer was inside him.

The sentencing, his own.

 

 

 

For the SoCS Saturday Challenge: Critic(al)

 

Hold Up

Mt Taranaki2 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

It is alright

To pause,

To stop,

To dial back the crush

Of too chaotic

Stuff.

Hold up.

It won’t disrupt

Your pace of life,

If you let in a slower breath

That fills your lungs

With calm,

Instead of huff

And puff.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post