Asylum tryouts: glass wall.
I thought I'd try this: one question and a barrage of answers, musings, 'what-we-call-it's whenever I'm not feeling exactly the most productive of persons. In fact, I'd like some cookies.
Fingers and knives. Your life is like yelling through the asylum bars, telling the nurses you're actually sane so you weren't supposed to be here. You plead, beg, scream till you're hoarse. Half the time you're trying to convince yourself. That you are, in fact, the voice of reason, the ONLY voice of reason that nobody listens to and makes a conscious effort to ignore. Isn't it strange: that it didn't occur to you why everyone strolling past these bars (the cruel, unyielding, cold barriers between what you have and what can never be yours) pick up the pace until they've left it all behind the glass walls?
It's a disheartening, uncomprehending thought. The difference between imagining it and knowing it's real is seeing it in the flesh. The word flesh was meant to be a word of pronounced relish; the noise of saliva bubbling 'neath your tongue almost equates to a blade slipping past tissue fluid. And for them, knowing for certain it's true hurts: someone they used to love has gone mad, and the final thing that tears at their hearts is that she believes it's not true. It's hard to connect with frayed wires. It's a double-hazard for you and everyone else. (At least, that's what the nurses say.) So deep within their hearts they solemnly make up their mind that unless your reality levels with theirs, they're not speaking to you again.
Of course, they do the coffin-nailing once they're out in the sunshine, where nothing bears even a mere resemblance to the piercing florescent lights that flatten out the white-washed walls like makeshift hell--only more successful. When they've left you behind. Though they've never been confined--not like you--they feel like they are inside. No wonder you detest it, kicking and shrieking for all it's worth, they muse, but this thought leaks out behind the backdoor of denial.
Hearts left to steep in jars. And they're oh-so-terrified and they cannot inch any nearer and they whine how the lace from your dress will wrap around their throats.
It's a maelstrom in here. You'll never read them, stuck and isolated against your own choosing. Pleading to live and die. The glass walls are evil--you've known this all along. Three, five ounces of reality are what metal bars give. The glass gives away everything--except freedom. It's like watching a game but you can't join in. Watching and watching, until you place a yearning hand on the cold, transparent surface and nothing feels real anymore. You can't speak; they're all on how sedating people make their jobs easier and unfortunately you don't speak Syringe the way they do. You find yourself saying this ten, twenty times to convince yourself moving pictures on glass walls are moving pictures and that you know none of the people in this film.
As usual, it doesn't work. Probably because you drank hot apple juice at 3pm.
Why, even I try to make sense of the loved ones.
Fingers and knives. Your life is like yelling through the asylum bars, telling the nurses you're actually sane so you weren't supposed to be here. You plead, beg, scream till you're hoarse. Half the time you're trying to convince yourself. That you are, in fact, the voice of reason, the ONLY voice of reason that nobody listens to and makes a conscious effort to ignore. Isn't it strange: that it didn't occur to you why everyone strolling past these bars (the cruel, unyielding, cold barriers between what you have and what can never be yours) pick up the pace until they've left it all behind the glass walls?
It's a disheartening, uncomprehending thought. The difference between imagining it and knowing it's real is seeing it in the flesh. The word flesh was meant to be a word of pronounced relish; the noise of saliva bubbling 'neath your tongue almost equates to a blade slipping past tissue fluid. And for them, knowing for certain it's true hurts: someone they used to love has gone mad, and the final thing that tears at their hearts is that she believes it's not true. It's hard to connect with frayed wires. It's a double-hazard for you and everyone else. (At least, that's what the nurses say.) So deep within their hearts they solemnly make up their mind that unless your reality levels with theirs, they're not speaking to you again.
Of course, they do the coffin-nailing once they're out in the sunshine, where nothing bears even a mere resemblance to the piercing florescent lights that flatten out the white-washed walls like makeshift hell--only more successful. When they've left you behind. Though they've never been confined--not like you--they feel like they are inside. No wonder you detest it, kicking and shrieking for all it's worth, they muse, but this thought leaks out behind the backdoor of denial.
Hearts left to steep in jars. And they're oh-so-terrified and they cannot inch any nearer and they whine how the lace from your dress will wrap around their throats.
It's a maelstrom in here. You'll never read them, stuck and isolated against your own choosing. Pleading to live and die. The glass walls are evil--you've known this all along. Three, five ounces of reality are what metal bars give. The glass gives away everything--except freedom. It's like watching a game but you can't join in. Watching and watching, until you place a yearning hand on the cold, transparent surface and nothing feels real anymore. You can't speak; they're all on how sedating people make their jobs easier and unfortunately you don't speak Syringe the way they do. You find yourself saying this ten, twenty times to convince yourself moving pictures on glass walls are moving pictures and that you know none of the people in this film.
As usual, it doesn't work. Probably because you drank hot apple juice at 3pm.
Why, even I try to make sense of the loved ones.