What is fear, other than a red sphere that encapsulates me. It binds me to the starting point, torturing me by projecting images of what could be, if only I had the courage to defy its authority. I cannot pick up the knife to act against it, even as it strangles me.
I do not want to be on the cross, whispering my torment, always a yawn away from a revelation. There is no sight more pathetic than that of someone publicly blood-letting, through a forced placement of an ill-fitting crown of thorns.
I stay inside this dark house with its cold comfort, because I can afford no other. With the windows blackened inside and out, it is impossible to see the outside world, to compare what I have with what others have, to think there could truly be anything more than this.