how we hold ourselves captive in some form of madness – or another.
I wonder – though I know we are always better doctors in hindsight – if we ever had a choice. If there was ever a way, a light, a dark, a door. Or if our very own straight jacket is just too strong.
On these white walls of our padded cells we paint a reality for no other eyes but or own. Masterpieces for our personal art galleries. And frequently, if not always, these images become animated, a fantasy so believable we might just swap it for what’s real.
And what happens when these walls stay silent; those are the darkest moments of our existence. Not only are we left to live and breathe without whatever we have painted onto our walls, but, when it gets too quiet, we also have to face the fact that we are wrong and we are liars and nothing we have made ourselves believe is real or – worse, in fact – will never be real. So we panic, cry, shiver until we manage to dive back in to delirium, back where we feel safe. We could forget to eat, drink, breathe in these walls.
And then, hopefully, we wake up, dry tongue, thirsty, starved, our body a void. But the images on the walls are forever gone and we have nothing left but to painfully accept them for what they are: White, padded walls to stop you from hurting yourself.