December 26, 2011
When I was young, it seemed wonderful, like a creative outlet. I had power and so did my imagination. It was never a piece of paper. It was a world. My world. And I could make it whatever I wanted. There was never just black in my world. There was only a dark night sky. And if there was a star in that night sky, I could make it twinkle and shine, even shoot across lightyears. And I could smile up at the moon. And you would smile along with me. Pretending that I really could dream.
As I got bigger, so did my dreams. I wanted to fly along next to those stars and be carried to the moon. I wanted to bounce on the moon's trampoline 'till my legs couldn't stand. Then I'd lay down and bask in the shadow of a crater. But for some reason, I couldn't. You stopped me.
You traded my notebooks for pills. But they didn't help. And as my pens gathered dust, so did I. You took me from my world and brought me into yours. You told me I'd see my moon again soon, but I never did.
My hands shriveled. And so did my heart. My hours were spent in sterilized sheets instead of on the moon. And you wouldn't let me leave. I thought the magic was still there. Beyond the white tiled ceilings and cardboard thin walls. But at midnights, I'd hear you sniffle in the chair beside me. You didn't think I was awake. But I was.
And now this clean sheet of paper is limp in my broken hands. You expect me to scribble something amazing. I can't. You should know that. Now it's just a piece of paper. I don't see the stars. Why? Because you shut them out. Because you poked me with needles and hid me from my world with blue curtains. And now I'm here. In a steel bed. And you want me to write. I reach for the pencil, grimacing with pain. It's clumsy between my bruised fingertips. I drop the pencil to the page, half-trying to and half by accident. You stand next to me now, waiting. I lean in, waiting, too. The pencil twists between my fingers. It falls. Clattering to the floor and echoing louder than all the sirens and the wailings I've heard. You bend to pick it up. But I don't want you to. What I want is to rip up the paper. But I don't have the strength. I thought I loved to write. Just like I thought I loved you.
I can't see my world now. Not my stars. Not my moon. Not even my paper.
I can't see your world either. Not the white walls. Not the blue curtains.
All I see is black.