Vociferous trepidation

My old friend lingers just over my shoulder, just back so as to avoid the periphery of my vision but close enough to have its presence felt. Were it something corporeal of flesh and blood the heat from proximity could arouse. Instead it is a wraith, a cold thought. A dank cold, like fog in a dirty alleyway in winter. Somewhere amidst the whispers on the breezes of youth, it found me, wound its fingers into my thoughts like tree roots in fertile soil. Since that time, I have tried many times to weed it from my life. The nettle, however, always springs back from those deep roots. It may lay dormant, inconspicuous amongst the clutter, for years at a time, but always shows itself eventually; A grotesque flower still must bloom. There is no pending season, weather patterns, or divining sign of its loathsome arrival. Just the garrish display, borne only for my secret display, presented either at times most suited or those seemingly least so. The blossom never bares fruit. It tried quite feverishly twice upon a time, to instead see its produce whither before maturation.

Today it hovers over my shoulder, bud opened and vile petals wagging in my ear like so many tongues. Tongues of taunting children and judging adults. Tongues of persons of reason and authority, and tongues of loved ones long gone who meant well but whose words were a double edged and atom thin sword. A constant bellowing of hot, musty airs carrying naught but wretched sorrow.

Tomorrow it will be back in hybernation. Having failed once more to extend its roots deeper, its canopy higher, or its influence more abroad. Tomorrow my old friend will start stockpiling starch in its unseen body, preparing for a future resurgence... Not today Satan. not today..