I fled from my home. It was raining cats and dogs and the clouds hung low. Away, away, as fast as I can, away from this sense that I can’t breathe, that I am trapped and have no where to go. And although normally the outside world is less safe than home, the implosion in the hearth is so bad, that now the outside has become the place to be. Anonymity, vast spaces, roads that lead to nowhere, or everywhere. Cars and people, hundreds, and thousands, with millions of stories and experiences. That feels safer. I hurry along the traffic laden road, gripping the handles of the pram. Tears are streaming down my face, as I whisper again and again “Oh God, Oh God” referring to the depth of my feelings that take my breath away. I feel like free falling, and engulfed in a sticky murky soup, grief stricken. I don't want to live anymore. “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God” the pain is overwhelming and the overwhelming feeling of not existing, not wanting to exist anymore frightens me. I pass other people, but I do not see them, nor do they see me. My hands gripping the pram start to loosen and my fingers start to open and close and open and close - in my mind’s eye the pram rolls away - its fate unknown and too gruesome to imagine. I have always known that I am a bad person. The tears keep streaming. The walk becomes less hurried but the pain remains. I have an urge to rub my wet and hot face against the dripping and cool branches of the nordic fir tree standing at a distance. People will think I am mad. I sway, my walk becomes unbalanced. I come up to it and - gently let the dripping wet of the tree's needle branches caress my face. I sigh. I'll do that again.
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