My spirit is weak, my soul heavy. I seek counsel and comfort from the minds of others because mine is broken, flooded. The structural integrity of the great dam holding back the torrent of repressed emotions has reached critical levels. Dam personnel have been evacuated and only the priests remain in the valley below, prayers the only sound in the sky above.
I walk the empty streets, mindless of the chant around me, blissfully aware of my impending demise. The dam served its purpose, though that purpose has long been forgotten, lost with the repressed memories that were slain and mixed into the mortar of its construction. It was a noble purpose (whatever it was) in a war of aggression, or so we were made to believe, and I believed. I believed in the whole dam thing. I believed it was there to protect me, sure as I believe it will be my end.
I could have left with the others but my spirit is weak, my soul heavy, and the destination unknown. I would no more survive the journey than the dam. At least I know the dam. I know it to be safe, even now, even when it isn’t. There is solace in certainty, comfort in release. I have never been able to release anything, not on my own. I am like the dam, full of rage, and now the dam is like me: broken, abandoned, unleashed.