I cannot live here.
I used to jump impatiently inside these 4 hard walls. I used to think that if I kicked and screamed loud enough the walls would vanish, melt away like sugar and reveal a life that I can live.
They never did.
And my voice grew hoarse, my legs began to ache, and my head began to hurt. Now I stroll around, making circles inside this empty box. Snagging at worn threads on old t-shirts, pulling off buttons from tattered button-downs. Gripping, holding onto a cigarette, watching the smoke twirl away to freedom, to some place I can't go.
But sometimes when I'm tired and staring at the ceiling, I can close my eyes and the stark white ceiling, the lid to this container becomes a transparent veil and it disappears. I can see the blue sky and feel the shade from the trees and taste the breeze that smells like long car rides in the summer. And for a second it seems as though I can stretch my arm out in front of me and grab with blind fingers that heart-shaped cloud that's floating past.
But the Earth spins too fast, time is such a thief, and before I can move an inch, the sky is gone and the box is re-sealed.
The curtain of my eyelids return and I am waiting, wafting in circles, once more.