Tracing the Brick

I am still here.

Droplets continue to fall mercilessly on me as I lay fetal. Cold stone against my naked skin. The cell is pitch black and feeling tighter everyday.

This dark is too dark.

Can’t think. How can I think if I can’t see? Thoughts lost. What proof do I have of having thought these thoughts at all if they escape into the nothing? What thoughts in the first place?
Couldn’t remember.
I laugh and laugh then wheeze and cough and hack.
I check the walls. Still there. Still cold. I touch my face; still here. I mumble a little.
What did you say?
Oh. How long have. . .where am? You laugh.
‘As if you still care. If you were to find out, you’d refuse to leave even if they were to release you. You shouldn’t be let out at all now anyways. You’re broken now. A spring sprung. All knotted up. Screws loose.’
Shut up. Too loud. Can’t think. And this dark is too dark.
I grasp at my body. I am still here I whisper.
‘And what of our mind?’ We ask us. ‘Where has our mind wandered to?’

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