Sachsenhausen Prison

I worry about getting things done, and still having time left over for the important stuff.

I worry about working or sleeping through the good parts.

I worry about accomplishing as much as humanly possible, and then realizing I've accomplished nothing.

Most of all, I worry that "someday" is a myth, a prison I've build around myself while pretending to plan my escape.

Each day I step across a new threshold and lock the door behind me, telling myself that I'm never really lost as long as I keep moving.

Perhaps one of these doors will lead me out of here.

Perhaps one day I'll open the final door and fall into the cold darkness waiting on the other side.

Perhaps I'll walk these halls forever, realizing that the only chance I ever had to escape was to never have built this prison at all.

Or perhaps this place will become my sanctuary, protecting me from my own intoxicating obsession, a madness soothed only by the purity of these thirsty virgin pages, each longing to sip from the inkwell of my soul.

Perhaps that's what really keeps me up at night.