The day I held her hands, mine went numb. “Salvation,” they say. Is it so?
I lay on the cold floor mattress with injected Paresis, and
I write to her like Kafka’s letters to Melina without getting a reply back from her.
I looked through the window from my room of Saint Paul’s,
Opposite to room number two,
All I could see was the swirling, dynamic sky and the cypress tree.
My senses were filled with the smell of Ipomoea.
I was walking through a dimly lit corridor wearing a grey Johnny gown, with no mask.
I saw the barkeep in his greenish-blue scrubs.
I asked him to pour some wine into my glass, but he gave me a bottle of olanzapine.
The rooms of the corridor echoed with indistinct chatters—some cry, some laughter.
The stairs lead me downstairs.
Is this real life or fantasy?
The mayhem odium had mirror ceilings and a bunch of broken picture frames, but the photos still remained the same.
But I can hear the voices from far away from the corridor screaming, “We are the prisoners of our own device.”
I stood at the corner of the odium and saw my delusion and reality,
Waltz to the symphony in the harmonious cord of the cerebrum played by a headshrinker.
I saw her in a sheeny robe, stitched with golden feathers.
I couldn’t see her face, but she saw mine. She held my hands, mine went numb once again.
I saw Goddess in her, but is it so?
I started following her.
The last thing I remembered, I stood in the backyard.
I lost the passage back.
The night man took me to my room. I asked him about the exit door.
He said -“You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave!”
I lay on the cold mattress once again with a single blanket of warmth.
I said to myself, maybe I should sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense.
