Young Writers Society

The words of Billy Joel, "In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong," to some people may seem to some like a spewed mouthful of cheese or perhaps scattered sprinkles. Not to me. They resonate in my soul, over and over again, repeating themselves in my own mind-voice every chance they get. Warped, perhaps, sometimes mocking, but the poetry is always there.

There is no joy in this lull of thought. No soft smiles, no sighs of contentment. Why should there be, when they bring me not even the faintest hint of peace? No, they make me want to hit something. It's all wrong. Your words are wrong, Bill. Hearts don't have rooms. Minds do. Padded cells with nice little white hug jackets and belts that never break. It's not a sanctuary, it's a prison, and we put ourselves into it.

My best friend is very sick in this prison, and nobody wanted to take care of him for a long, long time. Except me. But there's only so much one crazy person can do for another. Or any person, for that matter. That's the problem with your 'room,' Bill. Those effing walls make everything so difficult. As much sticky-sweet caring and loving that went on between us, there was no sharing of the rooms to keep each other company. That's dangerous, deadly even. He can't stand being in his room, or any room. Who says someone like me can change that? No, it's too risky, he might hurt me. Like he hasn't already.

When he met me, there were a few weeks of us squirming between the wires that separated us until our fingers caught. On each other's, on the sharp snags in the metal, or what-have-you. Once we got hold of each other, there commenced an epic asylum battle. Wrenching, twisting, straining, pulling, trying to escape our rooms together. After a while of trying without success, he figured that there was only one way to do that, and almost let go of me as he tried to skewer himself on a jagged rod. Only then did the doctors come.

They came and took him away from me, putting him in a new place. A hospital. A prison within the prison he's already got. Maybe he'll be safe there, maybe not, all there is to do now is hope.

Until there's more to know, there's plenty of time for me to figure out how to untangle myself from this web of iron. My arms, my stomach, and my face are all covered in pressure marks and lacerations from when my strength to fight back finally left me and he pulled me closer and closer to him so he could whisper seductively in my ear all the mediocre and second-best qualities he found in me, how he only turned to me for friendship because there was no one else in Hello-Kitty to turn to. Thanks a lot. He had this heart to break and boy did he do his darnedest.

Don't get me wrong, Mr. Joel. Your song is beautiful. All of your music is. It's just wrong sometimes and it makes me angry because someone might take you too seriously.