I am in a hole, a hole of my own digging. Every day, the hole gets deeper; this, I cannot help. My own hands wield the shovel, but they are directed by a part of me that is beyond my control, feelings I could not prevent, even if I wanted to. No amount of persistent climbing will bring me back to the surface. The surface is still, I believe, in sight; I could reach it with a decisive leap, if I trusted myself to make such a leap, and not fall back down. Decisive is the key, here; a half-hearted leap would surely fail, this I am sure of.
Not a day goes by without my regretting missed chances to set things right when the hole was a mere dip in the ground, the necessary leap merely a step, or a hop. Every moment I waited for a more perfect opportunity to make my jump into the bright daylight, the hole deepened.
It is dark down here. I think I will find a way out soon.
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