Every now and again, a gust of wind blows over me, enters and swirls around, fighting to find a way out, like a zebra that wanders into a lion’s den and realizes it too late. The sudden bursts of activity within me are not silent, echoing the frustrated travails of the beast trapped within, its fears, its desperation, its panic, its struggle… and the noise rattles around inside me, and escapes from any crevice it chances upon, emanating as wheezes and moans and groans from my parched lips.
Slowly, the noise dies away; the animal within has given up, embracing captivity with a shudder and a sigh. Maybe it’s trying to summon up that last vestige of energy and zest to try just one more time. But the initial pause is all that’s needed to make its prison walls close in on it, constrict it, suffocate it, and master it.
Its breathing becomes shallower by the passing moment, becoming more erratic.
It dies.
It festers.
It withers away into nothingness, leaving no trace. Its momentary existence, its valiant struggle, its fears, its hopes, its dreams, its past known to none.
I remain unrepentant, resolute, immobile and unfeeling. The wait is now on. The next gust is on its way. Soon… very soon…
I am a shell: hard on the outside, empty inside.
