Caged

The rough metal of the rusty shackles chaffs my wrists; I tried to adjust my arms to a more comfortable position to reduce the irritation. The rats scurried beneath my feet; I stopped giving them notice a long time ago. I've been in here for far too long.

The key. It grows warmer by the minute as I clutch it in my hands. I have the key. I have the power to end my suffering, to break free of these shackles. But I remain in this cage. I can't move, I can't grow, I can't progress. Yet, I am still here.

Why? Why am I here? What kind of person rots away behind bars when the answer lies before him? I can be free of my chains, free of this bondage, free of these limitations and actually live life.

But who knows what lies in wait for me, outside of these cold metal bars that I have grown to accustomed to? Outside of the four corners of my cell that have become ingrained in my soul? What sort of dangers and challenges await me, lying in dark shadows, waiting to tear me limb from limb when I least expect it? At least in my cage, I am safe, I am fed, I am familiar. Out there, who knows?

I look down at my hands and my feet; I see the scars, I see the imperfections, the shortcomings. I doubt myself because I know myself, I know my sins, I know my fears and failures. I see my flaws and limitations as I compare myself to others. I can't see the end of road. I don't know. I don't know what happens next. I'm not ready to step up to the plate. I'd rather be safe in my cage than brave the dangers of the unknown outside of the bars.

So I wear these chains.

"Fear does not stop death. It stops life."