Chains.
I'm a prisoner.
Cold walls.
I'm in a prison.
Uncomfortable bed.
I'm in a prison.
Empty hands.
I'm in a prison.
Barred windows.
I'm in a prison.
What's my life come to?
I'm in a prison.
No.
I've always made things for myself.
Independent, I am.
Strong, I am.
Intellectual, I am.
Creative, I am.
...
Where is it?
There're bodies on the floor.
I can't find it.
Blood on my hands. I'm not empty-handed after all.
It's not here.
My mind is racing, against itself. It's spinning in circles after it's own tail, trying to outrun itself.
It only succeeds in making me dizzy.
It's not there.
The record scratching, the ringing in my ears, the crying, the tears, the uncomfortable bed, the cold walls, the window I can't see out of.
...
Where is it?
I can't find it.
Because I'm not searching for it.
I'm not looking.
This is my prison.
