The longer I spend looking for an exist sign, it always leads me back to an abandoned road with nothing but a broken-down asylum, baffled and perplexed as to why I keep returning to the same place. 

 In an abode filled with memories of warm familiar faces, a cold feeling of isolation always seems to overcome it. 

Given a chance to make my own decisions, no one to worry about except myself, regret never coming to mind.  

My mind is an asylum I can’t escape, filled with my deepest darkest secrets and has cages that are locked and never opened. 

As I stand in front of the mirrors plastered on the walls, I see nothing but the reflection of the other mirrors, with no sign of existence in sight. 

The owner of the asylum is a force much greater than I, watching from afar, waiting to make his move. 

His cell is the darkest and coldest room of all. 

He’s always one step ahead of me, pushing me until I’m almost to my breaking point, on both knees begging for someone to open their eyes, hoping they see the monster’s shadow, too. 

He was too clever for me; the twisted games were too much and now it’s too late to save myself. 

Now I'm nothing but a book of memories and six feet underground. 

I’m sorry.