Rot

It's not as if I'm on the streets; it's not as if I'm starving. My life is privileged, and I have a million opportunities to fall back on to secure a home, an income, a bearable existance. I've done the rounds this summer, I know how incomprehensible my choices seem and how many people would rather I pulled myself out of this slum and arranged for my civilized life.

But I sit neatly between that rock and that hard place, unable to move, unwilling. Meanwhile, hours pass, days, weeks, I do not budge. What use is freedom when perched on such a precarious ledge? I daren't laugh, or dance, or write, for fear of falling into dark waters. But I cannot take the chartered course, cannot wade in low tide and watch my life lull itself to death. Apathy makes the floor tremble.

In medieval times, did they not pull torture victims apart by their limbs, torn in opposite directions until they broke? Unsure of my crime, I await my judgement.

(And the truth is, I miss you.)