You closed all the doors behind you when you ran through them but you forgot you never owned the keys.
And so they kept coming, finding their way to rooms where they’re not meant to be.
Leaving footprints all over your eggshell heart.
Tiny organisms fester in their wake, living rot.
Squirming small things that burrow deep though they can’t be seen.
And they leave cracks.
And the cracks never close.
So you did what you had to, you came to the bottom of the world where you hope they won’t follow.
It’s dark but it’s quiet.
You think this is Isolation’s impossible womb, a womb borne of a million tiny wounds.
And it’s not so bad down here.
It’s not so bad at all.
The irony is not lost on you that this is where you started your journey in the first place, and you fought through those doors with everything you had.
The journey was worth it, the journey has always been worth it.
But a journey is no longer a journey when it ends, it’s just a memory.
And a memory is not what you need.
So your journey continued, as far upwards and outwards as you could go, until you felt the sun begin to burn and the oxygen thin.
Until the only way forward was back.
And so here you are.
With all you’ve learned.
Below the maddening crowd, far from its unwanted intrusions.
With space and time and this sweet quiet darkness to consider all things.
Where Isolation is not your captor, but the child you wean.
Here at the bottom of the world, in this cold which hurts to breathe and leaves your fingers blue and numb, you curl cat-like with the Mother and the Child of all your yesterdays and tomorrows.
Now, you embrace Isolation.
And once more dream your lonely dreams.