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The past. My very being derives from it. It's always there, sometimes quiet, but always consuming. My past is unavoidable, inescapable, yet all too often I find myself running, afraid of what has been. It haunts me. Laughing. Taunting. But every time I run, it finds me, catches me. It is a dance, and I am bound by its chains. I scream for the pain to stop. The past looms over me, a dark shadow grinning maliciously. How long can I fight? How long can I run? Each passing day, I grow more fatigued. I'm tired. I'm beaten. I try to escape, but it won't let go. I won't let go. I hold the keys. The choice is my own. I dream to break free, but for now we walk.
