A drum sounds in the jungle.

A quick, unsteady beat that is pounded out in warning in the depths of the jungle at night; warning that there are lions coming to ravage the village.

The lions are closing in on a little rabbit. Just a'nipping at it's heels.

The rabbit thought himself to be an Eagle, before he was rudely awakened by the drums.

Her thoughts are my lions. Her unspoken thoughts about me and how I live, without her now. They lie in wait, ready to pounce and unsettle my nice and settled life without her.
I tire of writing about her.
I tire of being scared of what she'll say about me every time I see her or talk to her.

I hadn't talked to her in months, but manners persist I should go to her son and daughters birthday party. I don't really want to go.. I really feel this sense of dread when I'm around her, as if some old drama or some old transgression will pop to the surface and mess up my routine again, as it did so many times before.
(I find myself reading this entry, over and over again, wondering if I should omit a few things just in case she should find this.)

I tire of running so hard.