To escape. In particular from this 6 by 6 foot concrete enclosure I am currently residing in.
You may well say, that’s easy isn’t it? Just open the door.
The door is locked, bolted, and chained, I would have replied.
And in a way so am I.
I do not know how long I have wanted to escape from my current abode. Because I do not know how long I have been here.
It can be difficult to count the days, weeks, months, perhaps years.
I really don’t know as my little home is inaccessible to light of almost any form. Natural or otherwise.
Once in a while I notice an exotic flash of silver ignited by the tiny light emanating from the end of a cigarette. One dragged on by the human who uncuffs me most mornings, if not every morning. That is if he hasn’t extinguished his pleasurable habit before he enters my little home.
If he had done, I would have to rely on the use of one of my other senses. Smell. Of stale tobacco and stale, stale sweat.
Or if I was lucky, the treat of lemon juice and fuul.
Mostly though my olfactory nerve is giving me the rancid smell of urine. My own.
Tina Bexson 