Out
White walls with no door, and if it weren't for gravity, I wouldn't know what up or down was.
Disorientation to drive me mad. How I wished for a window to see the green grass, the beaming light of the sun, warm on my face. How I wished for anything but these white walls
I’ve been here for as long as I can remember, these stark walls, these pale floors, these sickly clothes. My only comfort was consistency, everything remaining the same. The white walls don’t gain colour. A ray of fresh light does not enter the room. Just this faint buzzing of an old flickering light.
It used to hurt my eyes, that light, with its incessant on again off again. I’ve been here so long that it doesn't disturb anymore. I feel like it would intrude on my sleep if I were to get any, but whenever I try, the room becomes insistent that I stay awake.
There ain’t no rest for the wicked.
My nail beds are raw, from repeatedly attempting to dig my way out. From trying to get out.
From seeking freedom. Somehow the wall always seems to heal from my attempts, but my fingers continue to carry the proof that there isn’t deliverance. The proof that no matter how hard I try, I can’t get out.
Could there ever be deliverance from your mind though? From the one thing that doesn’t leave you alone. That never keeps quiet. That doesn’t filter its thoughts. Letting you bear the heaviness of what you think of yourself.
When you wake in the morning, it’s there, complaining that you should have gotten out of bed faster
When you go to eat your breakfast, it's there, reminding you that there are other things you should be eating
When you meet up with your friends, it’s there, questioning if they like you or pity you.
There ain’t no rest from the wicked.
I am wicked, it tells me.
You try to run. But there is no point in running from what dwells inside.
Relentless.
Persistent.
Tenacious.
Every thought it tells me, and constantly wicked, wicked, wicked.
I crave the quiet, the stillness. I yearn for different colour walls, for my mind to speak of other things, I dream of a time when I was free, of a time where I might be like that again.
I pull at my hair. In attempts to silence it. It just laughs, knowing I can never be rid of it unless
I were to silence myself as well. And even to that it sneers. Because who would be weak enough to muffle their own breath? Not me surely?
Not me when I've endured so much already? Not me when it’s sure to keep quiet and give up soon? Any moment now?
And it will give up, I tell myself. It must. Who can keep this up forever? Surely it can’t? Surely it needs a break too? Freedom has to be around the corner, on the other sides of the walls. If only I could get out.
All that I wish for is a moment to myself. I wish to be out of this white room, and back into the fields of my youth. The ones wish flowers and sweet smelling air. The fields with rolling clouds and a steady sun. With a gentle laughter of water and a cool breeze blowing my worry away.
Perhaps if I keep thinking of my field it will let me break down its rooms. Perhaps it will let me have the joy it keeps telling me I don’t deserve. If i keep showing it, maybe it will realise that i need it? That I cannot go on forever?
But I must go on, for it cannot win. I will best it and I will find my way out of these walls.