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“Insane Asylum Hymn”
These institutional green walls keep me contained from the outside world. It can't see me, and I can't see it. No one knows I'm here, except the ones who put me here. I scream, but no one can hear me. The hallways echo with the sounds of the insane. I don't why I'm here, I'm not crazy says the voice in my head, but I don't know which one said it. I can't break free from the jacket they put me in. I ran back and forth and hit the wall at each end. Still, I keep running until I can escape. I haven't made it yet. Doctors stick me with needles and pins they say I'll get better, but I'm still here. I've been injected time and time again, but nothing has changed. The murky dirty windows let in what light can come from darkened grey skies.
Outside is as foreign to me as any distant land.
How long has it been? Time has stopped at half-past one and it hasn't moved since. That old clock hasn't worked since I've been here.
What time is it says the voice in my head, and another voice answers, the same as the last time you asked Good night, good morning it is all the same when you are insane. The cries at night are the same cries during the day. When you are here, everything is an institutional color. Even the food you eat is some shade of institutional color. Freedom and normalcy are just words you heard once, but completely absurd. I remember the nurses telling us, we getting better and we'll be going home soon. I've been here since I was two. My parents didn't want to deal with me anymore. My home is here. I couldn't tell you how old I am. I just know my hair is grey and my skin is wrinkling like an old bed sheet. I can barely remember what I look like. I just see patted walls and floors, when the voices in my head are fighting each other. I dream of a place where the grass is long and green. Every flower you could think of is in bloom, I wish I would die soon and escape this room. The screams in my head and the hallway are a private hell and like a hymn of an ancient church choir of the forgotten and not admired. We are without souls or purpose, but with songs with no words a silent night unheard of a good night my friends in my head. This the another hymn of the insane asylum.
ns 18.68.41.177da2
