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Nearly twenty years ago this was written. I was 28 and disabled by clinical depression. I could do nothing but fight to lift a pen quietly and secretly document it. The monstrous kidnapper inside was asleep at the time.

Thursday 24.9.98

 

Alone; just me and the monster

We are together in a peaceful nightmare

It is resting for now but will strike again

Soon enough I’ll be writhing in emotional pain

and isolated from civilisation

Staring through impenetrable walls

seeing life on the other side carry on regardless

It’s no good screaming to be heard

I’ve tried and failed

They continue without knowing or noticing

Anyway this despair has turned into an iceberg of silence

I gaze aimlessly

Hoping soon enough I will be rescued

Surely someone will hear my lack of noise

I wait patiently; can not toss and turn

The monster will wake up and torment me more

When it does I have no defence

Will has been stolen from my heart

What does all this mean?

Am I the living dead?

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