The Wait
From Meditations
Lost, I am- in the shadowy recesses of my solitude. The weight of my existence presses upon me. It suffocates any flicker of hope that may dare to rise from the depths of my tormented soul. Like an inescapable abyss, nothingness engulfs me, dragging me further into the abyss of my inadequacy.
In this confined space, my bedroom, I have retreated from the world. I have retreated from its harsh realities and scrutinizing gazes. The curtains, once a barrier against the invasive light of day, now serve as my fortress. They shield me from me. With every thread I pull to darken my surroundings, I seek solace in the solitudinous void that surrounds me.
And thus I face the unbearable weight of my guilt. An error of such magnitude, a wrong I cannot fathom, hangs heavily upon my conscience. Its essence eludes me, veiled in the obscurity of my mind, yet it devours me whole. The enormity of my wrongdoing cripples me. It me a prisoner of my own making.
In the eyes of the world, I am but a feeble being — bereft of value or significance. There are tendrils around me. Tendrils of self-doubt. They entwine around my spirit, choking the last vestiges of self-worth from within. The relentless whispers of self-condemnation echo through the corridors of my mind. Their venomous words etch deep into the very fabric of my being.
