Contemplating the world from a darkened womb: my bedroom.
I listen to the noises of the day going by from my haven.
My home is my sanctuary, and I feel considerably less dread.
Outlined in my mind, solutions to the world’s problems belie unwillingness to take a stand.
It is too tiring, to be brave in reality, Gabrielle, though God gives you strength.
Birthing solutions to life’s momentous forks and mazes takes effort.
Nurturing ideas and plans requires more than charisma and words.
Breeding substance, eschewing apparitions of easily wrought success, the spectre of ill-got gains,
Learned as an infant, lessons remain with me still; they haunt and condemn me now.
Not fighting nor fleeing, but frozen, I while away another day in deep reflection.
The womb: a prison or the niche from which good things grow?