Every stain has its origins. Many particles all residing in one specific area in which they begin to seemingly collect more; building upon what once was a minute spec on the wall, to obscure design that engulfs your very existence.
At first, only you notice it. The little dot of what may have been just some coffee spilled from this morning’s breakfast. It is your little secret; a secret in which you pray no one will discover.
As the stain begins to expand, you turn a blind eye to it. Still, no one seems to observe a difference. And to be honest, neither do you. Or at least, any change you do notice is counteracted by the feeling of denial. Besides, the stain is no bigger than your thumb at the most.
Days turn to months, and the stain is now the size of one’s fist. Today is the day; the day in which you finally decide to remove the unsightly mark from your wall. However, after hours of scrubbing, you see no result. The coffee cup, still almost full, flies with incredible speed towards the wall. You watch the cup shatter into a million little pieces, and the coffee only adds to the impenetrable stain that you must now find a way to cover up.
You begin avoiding people; keeping only those closest to you, knowing that they will not judge you for the stain on your wall. Social events become hellish, a nightmare that in which, there is no escape. One last time you try to eliminate the stain for good. Armed with what was the number one-rated stain remover on Amazon, you confront the stain in a last ditch effort to be free of the burden. Try as you may, the stain now is part of your life.
The stain has become an everyday part of your existence, and the fear of change is eminent. The shame that surrounds you deflects any kind words bestowed on to you. The entirety of your wall is black. No matter how desperate you cry for help, no one hears you. When finally someone does respond, your retaliation is brutal; knowing that if you do receive “professional aid,” the stain in which you have become so accustomed to will be gone forever. The constant push-pull relationship with your inner emotions pertaining to the stain has you forever exhausted. Every time you attempt to penetrate the immense blackness of what once was a beautiful white wall, you fall, chastising yourself on how you could ever conceive the idea of having a clean slate. You love the new color your wall has become, yet you hate it; knowing the complete control it now exercises over you.
The path in which you know everyone wants you to go down is clearly the most dangerous. You want the stain to consume every last part of you, and yet knowing what it has already done, leaves you in a state of woe. The harder you try to please everyone, the more you end up loathing yourself; thus falling back onto the stain that has now entered your heart.