Good morning.
I awoke with a start and feeling so thirsty. It amuses even me that I eagerly look at this blog each day as if I think I am going to see an entry from you, when I know in reality that won't ever happen. I might as well be scratching with a stick on a prison wall. It was strange, because in jail I was allowed nothing. At first, all I saw were someone's notes on the wall, like their notes for a business meeting that had been inconveniently been interrupted by the blip of being jailed. (how did they rate a marking pen, or did they find an extraordinary hiding place?) Dried blood on the floor was what? The realization that freedom would come too late? An attempt to be removed to another place?
I welcomed the books I was given. I devoured them instead of the food...a small act of defiance.
Why did some think I wanted drugs? I barely take an antihistamine without extreme necessity.  The ER doc seemed to think it was what I wanted when I worked so hard on my beautiful wood floors to ready the house for sale to interlopers and was overwhelmed by the fumes and strained muscles that rendered me temporarily paralyzed. No one cared about me, they believed what they were told to believe, while pasting a mask of compassion on their faces.
It is some of what I have endured for my love for you. The time away has been enough for a war, or a family of three children to have been produced.
To say I have had the shit beaten out of me is to be conservative. I now live in a prison of my own making....and you are still gone.