I’ve been shriveling up inside, hiding, tucked far away, beneath time and space; in such a lonely place. I’ve wondered why I feel like screaming, well, life starts to lose meaning when I’m tied up in an empty room. It’s becomes harder to express myself. The drought keeps growing longer, while every ounce of freedom in me is left trying to scream.
The screams are being muted and it’s becoming easier to turn a blind eye. I’m falling down into the mundane. No sentences have been written, even to rearrange. No one’s listening and I’m still afraid of what they might say.
I feel I must write, like a flood gate of lies can no longer be held in, because the accumulation of guilt had grown so large that the lies must eventually be let go. Letting go, drenches the fields and replenishes the land and adds flavour to the taste buds of the jaded and hungry souls.
I must, for my own sanity! I’m dieing inside, every second I’m afraid. I’m alive when I can admit to you that I can see the sporadic hope for desperate and weary souls. I hear, like whispers stirring silently up from my unconscious, things more powerful than I have been capable of comprehending, just waiting to be born. Every day of my life I’ve been preparing and soon, I’ll no longer have the choice to deny the right to passage.