Coming to terms: a journal in parts

This preoccupation with loss. This fear of what the next moment will have in its hands, or already does. Ah, my mind. What are we to do? That I could restrain you within this small space: these quotidian-smeared walls, this dusty floor, these narrow stairs, this endless day-to-day. That I could pull you back from your stubborn forays into the great unknowns, bigger than you could comprehend, deeper than you could fathom. Why do you stray so? You venture out with the very things that taunt you, the very spaces that house your fears. Why do you insist? What is the sense in this persistence? Stay, stay, stay. Stay and be safe. Be safe.