The Spiral

Spirals are a gorgeous shape. Simply flawless, mimicked everywhere you look in nature. Look at me trying to be profound. Spirals are simply perfect aside from their incredible downfalls. No matter how you turn them they are downward, and eventually they end.
lucky me, to be stuck in such a shape of error.
The mind flits, naturally, to curly slides and fries and cascading curls of hair on special occasions. But this spiral is not something fun. Though it may be beautiful, watching such a disaster unfold.
One thinks, this must be the final downward turn. I am but mere moments away from level ground, the sturdiness of landing. and then another turn, round and round, turning your stomach and swirling the head until one can no longer recognize themself.
It begins as a slight discomfort, an annoyance, a gnat flying in your ear, and crescendoes exponentially, yanking your guts and wrenching your soul and cracking your patience until you find yourself begging, screaming for it to end. For something to simply put you OUT of this misery.
And you remember, this is a metaphor. It isn’t physical. Nobody around you is on this ride from hell so talking of it would warrant that look. The concern, a glimpse of fear behind the eyes. And you find yourself completely alone. And then I remember that it’s me. I’m the one that’s alone. I’m the author. And I’m alone. And my spiral must soon meet its end.