Clean

This room is very white. The walls positively reek of purity, and the sunlight that streams in through my one small, high window seems ersatz, filtered. My bed against one wall is sparse, the covers perfectly taut over the one pillow. I look at it with a mixture of loathing and love. My haven, where I lie each night--and day--protects me from the looming evil that is the outside world. Only within its safe white boundaries do I feel truly safe. The rest of the room can offer me no comfort. There are no books, no instruments, no photographs, for they could trigger an unexpected episode. And that is why I am here. The prevention of episodes.
At the same time I detest my bed, hate its safe confines that make it so easy and comfortable to hide. When I look up and out toward the great unknown, and wonder why I am here, I can hide under a sheet. The longing goes away then, or at least it is dulled into submission. Then the guilt begins. Who am I to think I can hide, here in my safe white room, far away from those brave souls who venture out into society every day, take its sorrows and joys, make it their own? Who am I to think that I even deserve this, when I am too cowardly to step outside? Why am I sitting here on this perfect bed?
I long for imperfection. And then the thought of it makes me scream.
Death, and loss, and risk, and hate and war and all the things I know prevail outside my room, seep into my mind. I am safe here. I know I am. Protected by my bed and my nurses and the clean, beautiful white walls. There is nowhere better for me--the dirt and sweat and tears of reality are too much for me. Even the ones I loved are no more--I cannot escape the pain of that. Life is one big descent, and everyday I was spiraling deeper. Down and down, and the fear that I saw and foresaw nailed me to my bed, until I could not rise.
Even the nurses, accustomed as they are to dealing with people like me, are nervous. They do not speak, just offer me my unintimidating gruel and scuttle away. They are afraid of scaring me, and then listening to my sobs as I begin to recall the terror that every corner brings.
I look up toward the mysteriously filtered sunlight, and I long to feel the wind. Maybe a particle of dust will touch my eye, and I will embrace it. I want another human's touch, flawed and wonderful. I want to see an unmade bed and hear a baby cry, and I want to feel water that is icy cold and salty, not tepid and bland.
I want to feel alive again, not this colorless, moping half-life. I want to feel the joy of rushing down a dirty city street, feel the hum of emotions and the chaos--nothing is forever, but everything is for now.
Maybe, someday, by looking up at my window, I will feel alive again.