No more

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I'm cold. And lonely. And afraid. I'm in a hole in the ground waiting for a hand to lift me out. And sometimes I get halfway there, and then a gloved hand pushes me back down. We were so close, but then it came back, like a wave covering the beach. It smothers me, chokes me, and sweeps me off my feet until I'm back where I started.

This wasn't supposed to happen like this. When we first left the warm arms of civilization, we said it would just be a month. Then two. Then three. Now it's been eight. And soon it'll be more. It's funny. When this all started I thought solitude would be easy. Enjoyable even. But I was rudely awakened. And when I woke up, I realized that it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare.

I blocked out the world. I sunk deeper and deeper into the hole. I tried to keep my footing, but it was like trying to grasp air. Eventually I gave up. I stopped trying and I fell. But everyone has to get up sometime. So I put on a mask, and I faked it. I told people that it was rough, but manageable. I told stories of my new hobbies and experiences, of how much fun I had.

But I lied.

And I almost got out. I got used to it. I got used to seeing people everyday. Seeing their eyes. Hearing their voices. And then they took it from me all over again. They swept the rug right from under me and I'm back. It's not collapsing as fast. But I thought that we beat it. I thought that we punched it and kicked it until it's mangle body could no longer stand. Could no longer infect us with it's poison.

But now I'm back to square one. Back to concealing my face. Back to being trapped in my hole. Back to crying myself to sleep. Back to begging for a way out.

I'm scared. You should be too. There is no escaping this until we stop trying to avoid it, and fight it. Not with knives and guns, but with brains and science. No more crackpot theories. No more lies. No more of this. No more.

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I wish this wasn't my true thoughts.

#roseprose