When did it creep inside me. . . could I not have felt it slowly worming its way in . . . how did I not know? It was clever, I give it that, laying dormant, patiently waiting for its time to pounce, all the while knowing it would gain more and more strength the longer it waited, gathering more strength the longer "I" waited. It bided its time, lying low, remaining in the shadows the way a sniper waits just for the right moment to pull the trigger. His finger resting on the trigger, concentrating, sure of his skill, sure of his target, he (it) gently squeezes the trigger, a shot rings out, its piercing sound echoing in the stillness of the air. A thump, an instant of pain felt, a wetness of red flows . . .I'm bleeding.
I wonder. . .
Has my time come and gone, is my well dry, barren of its life sustaining water. When did I allow, this thief of dreams . . . this thief of hope to creep inside and rob me of my tomorrows. I refuse to believe there is nothing, but the bucket comes back empty. I thirst. . .