War, alone

Locked is the open door below the iridescent crimson exit sign of my mind. Always striving, exhausting every last acid-green drop of adrenaline, never to reach the finish line. Trapped, like a mouse among tens of thousands of millions of ravenous, blood-thirsty felines foaming at the mouth, terrorized by the internal Al-Queda, wrapping their blood-stained cotton turbans around my soul. “We will not let you go” they sing, the pseudo Freddy Mercury chant paralyzing me. Sucking away at the ethereal substance that exists in me, all the way down to the quasi-sub-atomic level, the images of suffering and pain and fear and hatred running constantly in slide show fashion. “We will not let you go” they sing again as they tighten the gleaming sterling silver chains that bind me to myself as I am struggling against a force I cannot see, only hear. I try to block it out, using every strenuous effort I can muster from my IRS-audited mind, but their will to keep me blocked in is stronger. They know where the shiny red button is, despite my most drastic and vital attempts to mask it. They know me so well. Every thought and wish and hope and dream. They will not let me out the open door below the iridescent crimson exit sign. “We will not let you go.”