I sit at my desk, staring at the wall. How cold its surface, how welcoming the memories projected on it by my inner eye. I look to the right and I see a pile of work not yet done, I look to the left and I see the outdoors: promise neatly restrained by a tall fence. The walks outside, they feel as if I were walking in the prison yard. I can see the sky above, but the road ahead is blocked; yet only forward can I go. Hope and despair, so close to each other and I in between; I have trouble breathing, my face looks stern. Sought after is what we all want to be, wanted, desired, needed. Those who are self-sufficient are of no interest to us; dependency is what the world relies upon. Half an hour ago there was still light, now it all seems so bleak. The stack of papers to my right has done everything but diminish, the barrier to my left is now closer than before, the black veil all but entering into the realm of my room, that small space full of anguish where my existence is tolerated, where I am allowed to breathe. No more, no less. He had wanted to hold my hand. I had given in. He had let go…

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