I didn’t intend things to be this way.
Silence. I’ve but this across my house. Quiet, still, and the hours of the night wind long like the toil of beasts and the burdens they haul.
Restless as the clock before me, and the green glow of its numbers tell me there’ll be more time before sleep will take me.
Actionless, not stirring. I glance at my cell screen and stifle the urge to log into FB or do some random searches.
I’ve but to face these moments and all too many of them ahead in succession. Like an army in march across a dead mire, and it’s trudgery through these rank muddy waters seem prescient, as they tell me everything upon this night and the next.
Tiring, tedious, and I’ve become bored of my books and movies, and even for a drive or walk. I’ve become complacent in this cell of mine, and my mood but the cold iron that chains me fast to these walls.
I’ve to become used to this, with the promise of more toil. Tomorrow, more of the same.
The promise of reaching out and touching naught but the chill of night and ray of moon.
The ritual of the day’s end, and tell myself never to cry, for I am never so alone as I would want to think.
Even as my eyes close and my body lays for rest, I’ve always fate watching me. Holding my hand. Holding me cozy, and squeezing my throat until I choke near to death.
For I’ve no other lover other than what fate would have as the pall of years ahead of me, or so it seems.
I cannot shake this. I cannot flee.