I procrastinate on writing but it hovers, poised to cut me open like a cold knife against fragile skin. The promise to bleed, to release, is like a bizarre compulsion, an overpowering urge I wish to resist because it feels so safe here, away from it.
Reluctantly I open the box and peer in at the fragments, remnants of a life I strive to leave behind; attempting to piece an incongruous puzzle together, to make some sense of it. Of anything. Most days I quickly close it, as if to capture all the demons in one tidy corner of my mind before they can escape. Errant stray thoughts are thrown in to stay put with the other prisoners. Of course, they do not lie quietly. They rattle and rail and plot their freedom, hatching a plan to overpower the guard when she has taken a break from fighting the invisible enemy and the only writing left is to question if from this dungeon a small sliver of light can emerge.