Perhaps someday I will sit with rounded scissors in my hand carefully turning paper into crystalline snow. With a cast of light and dark from the window overlooking rolling green hills, whose aspect is only blurred slightly by the bars, could I find comfort in the confinement? What is meant to contain also serves to protect. Might I hide there for a while? There I could wear paper slippers and a band around my wrist branding me, identifying me as one of the lost, myself distilled quite purely down to name, birth date, illness and allergies.

Words, Alison
11/18/63
Bipolar I
Living

This seems an uncomplicated existence. I might hum a little in the morning room but only if the screamer is still sleeping and the forever child is distracted. How much better would I fit amongst the misfits ? Would they also feel distant and illusory like the world just beyond the locked door? Would the medication help or would I simply disappear into oblivion. What waits for me in unconsciousness?

I often wish for peace, for myself as well as for others, but would this be peace or simply a cave in which to hide. At night when the demons come a visiting must I lay quietly as they scream and taunt me or should I weep for that which could have been; and what could have been? What did I do to destroy what could have been? How did I damage the fabric of my existence so thoroughly as to bring me here?

Questions, questions, questions and all the while I trudge through a pounding sea of events and emotions mutely pleading for even a delusion of peace.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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