Jane
Bits of myself? I am me. Just me. I am complicated. Just like you are. Don't try to simplify things for me because it doesn't work that way.

Wanna go?
Theotherme: Jane

Sunday, February 1, 2009 This Place is a Prison.

This place is a prison. This place in my head. I'm locked inside. I can't get out. I'm stuck. Trapped.

There's not much space in here. It feels very claustrophobic. Scream all you want. Nobody will hear you. Nobody can hear you. Because the sounds you make in here does not travel to the world outside.

Longing. Longing to go out. Longing to see the outside world. Longing for a breath of fresh air.

A contradiction.

From outside, the prison looks nice, inviting. It looks like such a comfortable place to live in. Looks cozy. Happy. The prison bars are well decorated. The signs on the prison doors are deceiving. The floor mat says:"home sweet home". Walk through the door and you will see.

The room is bare. It's pretty empty. But it's really congested at the same time. There's music. A low pitch of loneliness. There's somebody talking too. There's actually a few voices talking at the same time. They all sound different. They're all saying different things altogether. Some are logical, some are not. Some are just plain crazy talk. Dreamer's talk. Talks of hope. Talks of despair. Talks of giving up. Talks of holding on. They all speak at different volumes. They take turns going louder or softer. Some speak so deafeningly loud I can't block them out.

There's no place to rest. There's no furniture in the prison you see. I feel tired in here. But I can't rest. I can't lean on anything. I'm not sure if anything's safe to lean on.

I'm planning my escape.

5:54PM