My words are ripples on the surface of these walls and I am mocked by their echo.

Trapped

I am sitting in a room. The walls are opaque and seem to be shrinking.
But I don't want to dwell on that.
I don't want to dwell in this room either but that can't be helped.

To be quite honest, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't really mind being locked in here for a while.
I could probably enjoy the quiet, the sense of existing
out of orbit with the rest of the world.

But these walls are so black, and the floor, and the ceiling and
the black is so insurmountably thick. 
I want to slice through it like a plane pierces a night sky with
light but the blackness
is intangible 
and I 
barely make a 
crack. 



These are not normal circumstances.
It's been two months and now I know it is not my imagination-these walls are getting closer by the second and I am running out of time to
give you this message that I'm really giving me instead of you because I am talking to myself. I know you can't hear me. 
My words are ripples on the surface of these walls and I am mocked by their echo. 

But if, by any chance, an echo bleeds through to the other side,
if, by any chance, my voice crosses the chasm that separates my black room from your excessively lit reality,
then please-
send help. 

---

Now onto the reflection.