The Basilisk

It lurks in the dim, shadowed corners of consciousness Always watching, ever waiting to strike This monstrous thing made of my own fears and dread Slithering through my thoughts and coiling around my dreams Every thing that has ever gone wrong, real or imagined Every failure, every shame, every bad decision Each and every time I have misstepped, misspoke, or done wrong This is what feeds its scaly, bloated, heaving form Tightly in its long claws, it clutches its favourite failings like jewels Fussing, brooding, curling around its precious hoard Polishing these terrible memories until they gleam darkly So it may present them to me over and over and over, ever sharper in relief This thing, this mechanism that I have myself created This artificial intelligence that mirrors my own mind Its reality is a simulation, a projection of fear and dread An imagined world made of my worst mistakes Sensing hope, sensing ambition, it stirs Eager to draw me into its grasp It confuses cruelty with comfort, provides safety through self-sabotage It seeks to protect me from pain by inflicting it upon myself It anticipates its chance to strike Predicting my vulnerability with practiced precognition Crushing dreams for the future before they can be realized Potential happiness cut down before conception. To try, to strive, to reach for something is to step into its domain Treading near it, I immediately feel the chill of its intent To look upon it is to freeze in its glare Paralyzed by my own self-judgement How do I fight a monster of my own making How can I shake off fear of failure Can I escape the past? Can I accept the present Can I face the basilisk without turning to stone