The Window - Ch. 1

A prisoner of the mind questions true freedom and the illusion of escape. - Ch. 1

XX - XP - XXXX
S. Michaud

I write not as a will, nor as an explanation, nor as a comedy, nor as a testimony, nor as a philosophy, nor as a legacy. I write simply because I am bored. Bored to the brink of insanity! I detest my pen but will guide it anyway, driven by that madness—or rather, merely, the brink of it. How can a man withstand this prison, as long and as silent as I have, and still be sane?

“Prison?” a stranger might ask (those who know me wouldn’t bother). “Are you a criminal? What law have you broken?” I swear unto you, stranger: I have offended no law, besides perhaps the laws of Nature and Society. I speak often in riddles and in metaphors, much to my few associates' dismay; however, I hardly exaggerate. (Don’t trust my word—how can you?)

This room is my cell, this bed is my chain, and the nurse is the warden. Said nurse is, unfortunately for me, adequate at her job. She is a stubborn old hag who won’t give even an inch! I respect her for it, though. In my short, sickly years and limited interactions, she is what I might call ‘wise.’ However, that might say more about me than her. How did I come to this! The hag deserves no more, not even an inch.

I say “no more!” when I still need more. Why am I bothering to write? I repeat, I detest my pen. It does I, as well! My written vomit is a disgrace to all who hold, have ever held, and will hold a pen; Shakespeare frowns, Poe cries! (Let them, then!) I am tone deaf and off-key, singing a different song every verse, and forgetting the melody. Why do I bother? Why do I torment my hands, my paper?

My father would whip me if he knew what I was asking, and reasonably so. One of his many maxims was to “not ask questions you already have the answers to.” I am bored, yes, but I must admit there’s more to my reasons. Spite drives me. I do what I loathe because I loathe it! I spite my preferences, I spite my pen, for I will not let them confine or dictate me. I have wanted nothing more (do not believe me) in my short time than to spite all that confines me—to be free!

Ah, I crave freedom! How unique, how recherché. I will not debate with you, stranger, the “true” meaning of freedom, because it only has one meaning: without confinement. This is my one solid goal, my only dream… on the nights I’m not haunted by terrors, deprived by my mind, or awoken by my lungs.

Since I want, I do not have. So, I ask you, stranger: how? How will I soothe my appetite? How do I leave this room, this prison, under the nose of my watchful guard, to explore God’s wonderfully terrible world? To the outside, the freedom!

“Well, have you tried the door?” Stranger, you fool! You devil! You must be teasing me. The door leads nowhere, besides more rooms, more cells. This “home” is a prison! Even if I crawled my body down the stairs and out the front door, to the outside, it would lead me nowhere! Are you a child? An infant? Can you not comprehend? You must know all of this; stop your teasing. I said it; I’m sure of it! The door would not lead to freedom because the door is a confinement in itself. Do you understand now? The door has a handle; it cannot lead to freedom! It was meant to be opened; it was meant to be entered through and exited through. It offers itself. It is a confinement.

The “outside” the door gives is fake, a phony. It only appears like the real thing but has none of its true value. “Oh, how picky can you be? A cheap meal is still a meal; the ‘cheap’ outside is still outside!” Ah, stranger, you fool, still! You prick! I refuse to—I physically cannot—compromise on my desires, on my solo will to live. I’d sooner forfeit my life! I will not go through the door that is offered; I will not compromise!

I stand by this: offered freedom is not true freedom. This shouldn’t be difficult to understand, infant. True freedom is taken, not provided. Simply because if you are confined to what is offered to you, what is given to you, you are not free. You are only free if you take. Deny what is given and take what’s not yours: the right! “The right to what?” The right to exit! “Well, how can one exit the room if not by the door, so as not to compromise?” Do you not know, stranger? Can you not read, child? The solution is simple, so simple that you’ll smack yourself: the window.