A day did not go by that he did not want to leave that room. He sat crouched in his corner, safely surrounded by his own curled limbs, staring at the door. He always stared at the door, because there was nothing else left to stare at. The windows were covered in grime and heavily barred; the filthy mattress in the opposite corner was stained and damp. The door was the only thing left that could capture his eyes. Scanning over the rusted deadbolts locks and bars, he was never satisfied with the door. The door held possibility, chance. He didn’t want possibility. He didn’t want chance.
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Still struggling with writing. I think I’m going to have to do a few creative writing experiments to get me back into the swing of things. I never was any good at fiction writing, but perhaps posting snippets of it up here will help motivate or inspire me.
It should at least provide a good chuckle to anyone out there that still follows this journal.
The One Words still sit here on my desk. Reminding me of my fears. I need to do something decisive about them.