There is nothing more powerful, or malignant, than the idea in a memory.

That sometimes outlandish requirement in the mind’s eye to

pull and tear at the insides of a prison made out of satin and silk.

To hammer against the glass walls, knowing it’s the actions of the one outside

that helped create what was, and somewhere beyond, carries on.

Days, into weeks, to months and now a year.

What is there but regret and remorse, for wanting to keep trying, improving,

to be there when needed, and to not feel isolated and alone.

Staving off dark thoughts, thoughts of actions that are destructive, painful,

yet perhaps releasing, moving to an unconscious level, without all the internalized bitterness.

Yes, to be set free, for all time.

 

Knowing how the genie must feel, looking up at the stopper.

Steve B 08/08

 

 

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