Dark’s fingers creep like ghosts that linger. They envelop the skin, infiltrate the bloodstream, to smother the last embers of the soul’s flame. Here, doors open but it’s impossible to peek inside or find the courage to visualize beyond their darkness.
Yet, it’s curiously comforting. This cocoon of corridors in the dark, away from the world that peers through their small window.
It’s safe from the watchers where their light slashes through the sanctuary’s shadows that are a shield free from their judgment. They don’t hear or pry below the covers to admire, seek, nor converse with what’s hidden beneath the veneer. For they are the Watchers with their plastic touch to strap you down, pull at hair, and to scour at the skin. Their cool masks don’t hide the eye-shine of their pleasure to your pain as they pour liquefied ice to disperse your slow dance amongst the shadows of the soul.
And then they make you wait for the white-coated God.
What will he do to me, today?
Will he let me feel the sun on my face, the grass between my toes? To taste freedom from restraints. To bathe in the scents of summer away from the stale air so the skin can embrace the breeze. For fingertips to caress grooves of a tree’s coarse bark. Where the neck cranes so eyes can feast upon the dappled light within the waving-leafed canopy. To dance amongst the colours, away from the black, grey, and off-white monochromatic parade. Will the hall-stalking Watchers and white-coated God let us play today?
Only if I lie. Only if I wear the mask pretending to be the white-coated-God’s type of okay. And I’ll swear we won’t hurt anyone. For I know the monsters are hidden in the darkness where they can’t steal our hope for freedom and we’ll promise to behave, only if you let us play in the garden today.
Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. ~ Aristotle