Comfort in Monotony

He stands before you now, a shell of his former self. He appears to be talking, but his speech is like a train. Gaining momentum as it disappears into the forest of your subconscious.

You are not there, not in this moment.

You stand in a collection of moments, playing simultaneously behind your eyes. The sound crashes around you, within you. A flood of excuses and apologies and promises and lies, lies, lies. All lies.

You have been staring at one spot on the floor for what feels like centuries.

You are not listening, but you do not need to listen. This speech is an integral part of your memory, encoded in you like an instinct. Why do you stay? Why are you here again? Staring at that spot and wishing you were anywhere else, yet this feels like home. Why has this become home? It is what you know--the familiar, the reliable.

You can always come back to this, because it will always be here.

You do not know whether to be comforted by the surety of this, or to feel trapped by its pathetic monotony.

Your mother says you should talk to someone.

You know she is right, but you have always opposed assistance, while proposing resistance.

You always know what path you should take, but your feet so seldom meet that ground.

You prefer to stumble in darkness and fight the whole way.

You will arrive at the end with dirt under your nails and the taste of blood on your tongue, but you will know, "No path chosen for me led me to where I stand. I make my own ground."

Yet, you make your bed next to a boy who hits you and whispers nothing sweet in your ear. He will tell you to "speak" as he pulls another "I forgive you" from your throat. The words leave your lungs, and the final ember that gave your eyes their shine turns to ash.