Start talking about whatever is in front of you. There is a lighthouse somewhere in this scene. You must never mention it, refer to it, allude to it, or describe it in any way.

The paint is peeling again. I spent three hours on the railing yesterday, scraping away the rust, and now it looks worse. It’s a mess. I’m trying to fix the gate, but the hinges are seized. It’s loud when I move it. I keep hearing it in my head. I should have just left it alone. But I didn’t. I wanted it to be right. I wanted you to see it was right. I don’t know why I care so much about a gate. It’s just metal. It’s cold and it doesn’t care. I’m sorry I yelled earlier. I’m sorry I said those things about the house. It wasn’t fair. I just... I don’t know how to say I’m sorry without it sounding like I’m asking for something.

You make it sound so simple. Just a Tuesday. As if the rust is just a chemical reaction and not a reflection of something rotting underneath. I didn’t scrape too hard. I scraped until my hands bled. I wanted to get to the iron. I wanted to see if it was solid. It wasn’t. It was hollow. I think that’s what I was looking for. Confirmation that the foundation was compromised. You say you heard me. I don’t think you understood the weight of it. I’m not performing remorse. I’m trying to articulate the damage I caused. It’s not about the gate. It’s about the fact that I broke something and then tried to paint over the crack. And now the paint is cracking too. It’s a cycle. I can’t stop it. I’m stuck in it.

You are dismissing the reality of the situation. You want it to be trivial because triviality is manageable. If it is just a defect, then I am not a monster. I am just a man with a bad day. I prefer that narrative. It is cleaner. But you are right. I am asking you to say it is okay. I am asking you to look at the damage and decide that it is within acceptable parameters. That is a heavy burden to place on someone. I should not have done that. I should have borne the annoyance myself. I am tired of asking for permission to exist in this space. I am tired of the squeaking. It is in my teeth.

I do not have the oil. I left it in the shed. The key is in the lock, which is also rusted. It is a series of small failures. I am not holding my breath. I am holding the silence. It is louder than the gate. You want me to fix the friction. You want the noise to stop. I cannot make the noise stop. I can only sit here and listen to it. It is a reminder that things are not as they appear. The surface is intact, but the mechanism is broken. I am the mechanism. I am broken. I will go get the key. It is in my pocket. I forgot.

I am not narrating. I am observing. There is a difference. You want action. You want the lock to turn. I am standing here, holding the key, and I cannot turn it. My hand is shaking. It is not a metaphor. It is a physiological response. I am stuck. You say I am not broken. I do not know how to be not broken. I only know how to be this. The WD-40 is in the red can. I see it. I am looking at it. I am not moving. I am waiting for you to tell me to move. I am waiting for the permission you refuse to give.

It is not my body. It is the situation. You are reducing my paralysis to a lack of motivation. I am not unmotivated. I am terrified. If I move, I have to accept that the gate will still be there. That the noise will still be there. That I am still here. I do not want to be here. I want to be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. I am standing still because moving feels like an admission of defeat. If I fix the hinge, I am admitting that the problem was mechanical. And if the problem was mechanical, then my suffering was a choice. I chose to suffer. I prefer to think I was forced.