They say I’m broken. I say I’m free.
They tell me I’m in a room. Say that I’m surrounded by four blank walls, with a perpetually locked window and a door only they can open. I’ve never believed them. I see the proof that they’re wrong everyday. I’ve stood at the edge of creation, where all of Earth collides with a vast, unending ocean that stretches past the horizon into oblivion. I’ve felt the chill of the Northern Winter, whose winds pierce through my body and frost over my soul. I’ve been to endless deserts whose heat radiates into your every fiber of existence. They’ve told me that I’ve spent the past seven years in this room. I wonder how that proves I’m wrong.
The door swings open. The vivid summer forest around me twirls and contorts, as though waving me goodbye as it vanishes behind the corners of my vision and is replaced with a set of four off-white walls. I’m not concerned. I know the illusion of this blank, dreary existence is only a temporary one, serving only to placate my guests before dissipating back into whichever realm I visit that day. Today my visitor is old, his weary frame supporting deep brown eyes full of compassion that has devolved into despair. He’s silent as he walks in, carefully taking a worn hat off his head and places it on his lap as he takes a seat in the corner. He never speaks a word to me; he simply sits there for hours, eyes intently burning my figure into his memory as though he fears he may never see me again. Somewhere in my mind I recognize him, though it’s too far off to be remembered. I do know that this has hardly been his first visit, and I somewhat impatiently wonder why he continues to interrupt my journeys. Finally, as the hazy orange of twilight fills the sky in my window, he rises with a sigh. As he reaches the door, he almost painfully wishes the retreating sun goodbye, leaving his hat on a nightstand as he leaves. For the slightest of a second I feel a dull pain in my chest, though it instantly vanishes as the forest reappears, though it now takes a more somber, autumn appearance than it had before.
They tell me I’m broken. I say that I’m free
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A/N: Possibly the first in a series. I'd love to continue the idea, though I'm not sure if I'll get the same inspiration.
