Tuesday, December 10, 2013
I begin writing only to find that the sentence quickly becomes a death sentence. The exclamation mark, a decapitation. The question mark, a sickle. The cell I place myself in will never swell. Instead the walls get closer and the spikes grow sharper each hour that passes without a decent paragraph. The turn of a phrase would be a welcome relief, an appropriate idiom might be the spoon I need to dig myself out of here. But let's be clear that my muddied mess of words still serves some purpose, even if it's just material for the therapist to decipher.