Wedged in a prison I entered of my own free will, I look around my cell and wonder, in a largely-ignored corner of my mind, why I consistently do this to myself. As the walls close in, reducing my available options with every passing day, I stubbornly refuse to look up. An oubliette’s opening is always at the top, the way you came in the only means of escape. Surrounded by the bones of all my previous failures, I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. “I can make my own way out,” I growl through aching, grinding teeth. “I can do this myself.” The words belie the reality; I’m here, again, because I spoke without thinking, again, leapt before I looked, again. Now I sit here muttering, “I meant to do that,” which nobody ever believes, not even me. The inevitable approaches, openly, with no stealth or camouflage, calmly making its inexorable way towards me. I watch, mutely, as I always have before.
