there are things forgotten, like the sound of the floorboards and the smell of the smoke and the soap on your skin. there are things you miss— simplicity, evergreen and evergrowing, always knowing exactly what will happen next. there are two things you must know, must hold at once: you are alone and you are whole, two things that fight the pulling of the undertow, the control you once had but now lack, you fear you may crack, crumble, tumble down the other side of the mountains you climbed once upon a time, your clear mind now clouded, disgraced, red faced and stubborn by design, unwinding the pieces you left behind out of sheer spite, if nothing else. 

you know the entrances and exits, the safety in emptiness, the nest you’ve spent so much of your time weaving, believing you’d never leave it again. you memorized the lock on the door, so sure, you swore it, forever and evermore. you chip away each day, trimming the decaying limbs, digging up your roots, whittling down your wits to fit into small spaces, the places you’ve long since outgrown, gazing out that tiny window, hiding from your own shadow, afraid to be known, though you still wonder if maybe somewhere out there, there could be more, more, more than these four walls and this stone floor, all-knowing furniture that is always keeping watch, always keeping score. you wonder if maybe one day there will be nothing left to atone for.