Time is a much desired thing. Spare time in which to do the things one longs for. Leisure, reading, chores. When the time comes and you find yourself unsure of what to do. My eyes hurt and it's hard to read. I don't drive, so I'm at the mercy of my mother to take me to the optometrist, of which I have opted to pay for. So I wait listening to far too calming music that would better listented to on drugs, which I have never done, nor wish to do. I look down around myself and there are strings around my wrists, tying me to places I cannot see, held by people I'm afraid to admit, I am at their mercy. I look inside and there are strings around my heart, tying me to beliefs and inhibitions, and I don't know how they got there, held by ghosts and invisible people. All the strings are tangled, and can't be cut with knives or scissors. They must be unknotted to break free. But my hands themselves are tied. If you want the strings untangled, you have to help.