The walls are so clean.

Like skin once caked in dirt, but then scrubbed vigorously until the pure white flesh gave way to blood.

Turmoil is running laps around the ceiling. The fan is weak.

There is a world outside, glowing and euphoric.

but it’s silent inside. Except the screaming. The never ending rush and hum of endless streams of thoughts without beginnings or ends.

In the middle of the room, sits a note book and a cushion.

Most days are spent sitting against that wall, looking out into the world the others inhabit.

Writing and writing until hands become too heavy. All in search of some idea or realization that weakens the god of this world. With his senseless demands for violence and suffering.

Acted out on lost souls whose youth is cut short with the first time they feel the nauseating pain in the chest that is called truth. In that moment the soft glow of life becomes forever choked out with thick vines of terror and shame.

This world outside those walls is beautiful. But gazing at it through that cracked window, it’s like falling into a hole so deep you fall asleep on the way down.