Dark Corridor

The carpet is rough against my ankles. A kind of a corduroy affair. I sit, cross-legged, in the corridor. It is dark here. And the corridor is dark too.

Many days feel like open air and blue skies. Same days feel like I’m in a straightjacket and a hood and a cage and a cave a million miles underground. Other days feel darker still. Today is even worse than that.

Imagine a life where the only way to do what you love is to put yourself into the darkness. Into the corridor that leads to nowhere. Into the place with corduroy carpets and bare feet. Into the mind that must live in such a state. Into the tense and nervous places that exist between skin and bone. Into the ache of muscles around the spine that cracks and twists. Into the spluttering, sputtering, dying synapses of a brain gone wrong. Gone wrong. Gone wrong. Gone wrong. Gone …