Still Digging

I don't need to be told how foolish this is; I am all too aware of it already. I was aware from the birth, from the conception.

I don't need to be told that I am walking down a street that is just as peril filled, if not more so, than the last, that the place is seedier, the shops are cheaper, the people meaner, the pavement dirtier and the road strewn with obstacles that could cursh a spirit, break a heart.

I am walking down this street nevertheless. I don't know how not to - there seems to be no other place to go.

And I don't need to feel surprised when I find myself at the bottom of a hole, staring up at a palid blue-grey sky.

Why would I? I dug this hole myself.