Mud

She scrapes at night, whenever it's soft enough to listen. Miniature squeaks to harbinger a miniature menace. They leave our food alone at least (so far), and luckily I'm a pretty sound sleeper. And the nightmarish thought of a flood of mice descending from the ceiling, does not seem to phase me.

And the jobs are okay. They are alright, no really. I am just sort of struggling. What did I expect, deciding to pay rent all the sudden like that? But, what could I have done.

I want to flee, again just like I always have. But these survival commitments become the very mud that sucks at my heels like glue. It's not the money, it's not the things, not even the people so much. What roots still cling in these winter soils? What is it, other than fear and loneliness that could possibly hold me here?