"All rise."

Everyone stood.

Except me.

I'm sat.

Not out of disrespect...

but because this courtroom

has my name on every wall.

The State of Yesterday

versus

The Person I Pretend to Be Today.

The judge enters.

His face...

looks strangely familiar.

So does the defendant.

So does the prosecutor.

So does the jury.

Funny.

The hardest trials

are the ones

where everyone

is you.

The prosecution calls

Regret.

Regret walks slowly,

not because it is old,

but because it knows

it has nowhere else to be.

It carries exhibits.

A dream...

still in its original packaging.

A phone call

I never returned.

An apology

I rehearsed

until it expired.

A love

I was too afraid

to pronounce correctly.

"Your Honour,"

it begins,

"the accused

is guilty...

of living

like tomorrow

signed a contract."

"Guilty

of shrinking

to fit rooms

that were never built

to hold him."

"Guilty

of confusing

fear

for wisdom."

The courtroom nods.

Even I nod.

The defense rises.

Hope.

Dressed

in wrinkled clothes.

Scarred hands.

Shaking voice.

Hope never was

good at first impressions.

"Your Honour,"

Hope says,

"my client

was never fearless."

"He was simply...

human."

"He buried dreams,

yes,

but only because

life kept handing him

shovels

instead of soil."

"He hesitated,

not because

he lacked courage,

but because

he kept mistaking

survival

for living."

The room grows quiet.

Then comes

the witnesses.

Childhood.

With grass stains

still on its knees.

It refuses

to swear an oath.

Children don't know

how to lie

until adults

teach them.

Failure enters next.

Not as a villain, 

but as an old teacher

whose lessons

arrived

before I could read them.

Then Success.

Strange fellow.

Stayed only long enough

for photographs.

Never long enough

for conversation.

Finally...

they call

Time.

Time doesn't speak.

It simply points

at the clock

hanging above us.

Every tick

another piece of evidence.

Every tock

another question

I forgot

to answer.

The judge

leans forward.

"Does the defendant

have anything

to say?"

I stand.

For the first time.

"My greatest crime..."

I whisper,

"...wasn't failing."

"It wasn't losing."

"It wasn't choosing

the wrong road."

"My greatest crime...

was sentencing myself

before the trial

had even begun."

Silence.

Heavy.

Sacred.

The judge removes his glasses.

Looks me

straight in the eyes.

And smiles.

"There never was

a prison."

"Only a key

you refused

to believe

fit the lock."

The gavel falls.

Not with a bang...

but with a heartbeat.

Case dismissed.

I walk toward the exit.

Then I notice something.

The courtroom

is empty.

The judge...

gone.

The jury...

gone.

The prosecutor...

gone.

The only person

still sitting...

was me.

I'm sat.

Not because

the world

put me on trial.

Because I did.

And freedom

didn't begin

the day

I was found innocent.

It began

the moment

I stopped

building courtrooms

inside my own mind.