Not really feeling verbose today.
I was thinking about a current situation that I'm in and the first thing that came to mind was the thought of being interred alive.
You lie there, and you try to break out of the coffin. But if you manage to get it open at all, you probably can't open it enough to actually get out. Assuming you do, you have to dig your way out. You also probably don't have enough air to live long enough to dig half way to the surface, unless you are in a very shallow grave. So the entire time you know that everything you do is futile and there is nothing you can do that means anything.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
-- William Shakespeare, from Macbeth
Malachi B-J Brown malachus+spencerandbrown@gmail.com