Therapeutic

Scratchy, unhappy and awash with thoughts, and to escape the (mad) voice in my head that's not me, I open the pages and put down the words. They're not flowing, but I have to put them down one-word-at-a-time. It's therapeutic. And the pages become filled, one-scratchy-word-at-a-time.
I had to escape the heaviness and darkness of Zinkwazi: the room, the house, the bed, the cloying air of the bed-room; they all had me choked at the throat.
Taking the highway slowly south - that's the worst, that I'm in limbo, that my time belongs to someone else, and they don't even know it (but I take responsibility); that I also appear to hang meaninglessly in the air, a piece of light-weight litter on a transparent current that only my Creator can discern, waiting for universal chess pieces to be moved, and the next step - of the path through the forest - to be lit forward.
At Salt Rock I moved beyond the enormous northward creeping (towards Mordor) heavy-dark cloud bank and into the light.
But I'll order another coffee, and with less morbid fecundity I'll watch the world go by.