Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped in a tiny space.
No matter the thrashing and pushing and kicking, this coffin is only one size, and it does not expand. I have no light and no air, and My fingers are raw from scratching and clawing. Splinters are dug up under my nails, and I can feel the weight of the earth on my chest.
I can feel my cells dying.
I have no burst of excitement, no thrill, nothing to look forward to except another night at home. Is there no reality in my life? Or is there too much? Or is there actually something I can do to stem the flow of blood seeping from my fingertips? I can feel it watering the ground beneath me, seeping through the coffin-boards....
And another, and another, and another night. Were the people any other people I would have already died. If the stories had not been wonderful, I would already have bled out. If the characters, adn the players and the pretend in this little house not so delightful, I would have expired.
For all flipping eternity. Forever.
How like love this is. Forever? Of course. Will I love you? Forever.
But love and life are not the same thing; You do not need love to live. But you need a life in order to love.