The Word Cloud

When he’s around, which is always, he treats me like a child forced to stay inside during a thunder storm. From this window, I watch as the tiny crystal blades of water rapidly pierce the sidewalk, the leaves on the big oak tree, and the swing set. The unrelenting hum of the roof being stabbed as I sit without a scratch becomes overbearingly comforting. The comfort feels heavy and forced, like I should not feel this calm while being the witness to such destruction. He tries so hard to keep me sane, no matter what the reality of the storm would do to my mind and stability without the glass shield.

When the roof’s hum is suddenly interrupted by a steady growl, I’m only reminded of how much greater the threat would startle me if it wasn’t for the safety barricade he surrounds me with at all times. Without, this barricade, I would be able to feel. If only the iron bars weren’t there to separate me from the storm, the lightening would electrify my entire body, rushing fiery energy through my veins, leaving me stunned, rather than blinding my eyes from feeling the sensation it would give me if it weren’t for my imprisonment. Still spellbound by the shock, the thunder would sneak up on me, accelerating my pulse, freeing my chained heart from its cage and sending it fluttering wildly while it violently loses control of freedom that it never really had.

From behind this window, the thunder is only capable of causing a little startle that is quickly eased. If I were in the storm, in reality, there would be no recovering from the unfiltered effects the elements would cause me. The rain would launch at me like missiles, each throbbing shot opening a new wound. The surrounding blasts would then force upon me a new awareness of the pain and injuries the storm was inflicting throughout the entire battle in which I had no chance at coming out alive. The insanity would take over me if I were ever allowed to get that vulnerable. He says that’s why he needs to protect me.

This window protects me from that pain. He knows how easily I scar and how slowly I heal. He knows how I have a tendency of revisiting wounds to reopen them in order to relive the rush of their story. He knows I don’t allow my mind to mend itself, instead I pick apart and explore the black spots that should be left alone. Overanalyzing the scene of the storm sends me into a comatose state. I respect his protection, but I just can’t bear to gaze at my mangled soul through a veil that censors all feeling and detaches me from the very content of my being.

Sometimes if I beg, he lets me crack the window and stick my hand outside, only for a second. The drops sting like acid burning my flesh, and the wind whips across my face bringing tears to my eyes, and then he quickly closes the window again. “Thank you,” I whisper, letting him know that while the ache stunned me like a poisonous shock to my mind, I appreciate the short contact I had with my real self that I have been unable to reach. I also thank him for the ignorance to what reality would do to me without this window shielding me from the natural disasters of myself.

I think he only does it to show me a minor glimpse of the intense ache and destruction he is saving me from. He thinks he’s saving me. He must think he’s some kind of narcotic with the ability to ease all of my aches and happily relax my body into a trance. But he should know, from experience, that the mask of the Oxycontin can only make things all right for a short amount of time before you end up completely down and out. All he is doing is keeping me from myself. Being kept from myself makes everything in my life seem so fake. I lose sight of who I am and what I feel. But maybe he knows that keeping me from myself is the only way to stop the all memories and feelings from ripping my sanity to shreds and throwing me off of my life’s track. He allows me to watch the memories, but not feel them. Feeling them would instantly send me into a severe madness that would utterly destroy me, as if I were being thrown into a thunderstorm or a hurricane. It’s as if he is feeding me painkillers as my only form of life support, giving me his old addiction that he gave up just before giving up. Maybe he knows that keeping me from myself is simply the only way for me to stay alive any longer… but what does he know about living anymore?