If you find yourself trapped alone, in a small box, with room enough to pace and fret but not to recline and rest.
If the old, old dream of live burial beneath layers of rich, dark soil becomes your life and crushes all hope of sunlight or rescue.
If life’s rich pageant is mere noise outside your cell, give in.
Give in as you stand stooped and gasping for fresh, sweet air. Hold yourself in your own strong arms and sit with it.
Tell yourself every story you know by heart, every mouth you kissed, loaf you baked, heart you broke. Stop your pacing, your thrashing and your desperation and sit with yourself. Notice your ragged losses and privations but refuse to cherish them in a jeweled casket.
Have no false hopes, do not expect rescue, redemption or magic. There are no knights, there is no powerful and radiant Other waiting to complete your puzzle.
There is only you, trapped alone, in a small box. But if you sit quietly, breathing deeply and mumbling the story of your life like some mutinous and resentful mantra, there will come a time when you gentle, when your breath is quiet and your pulse is slow. You may remember the light grace of lilacs, or the promising weight of a book in your hands.
You will then look up and see that there has always been a door.