Stuck in a box. It's made of glass. Impulses and compulsion.
Locked in a box of silence, the springs coil tight in your chest. In an open room, you had no space. But you needed it.
You needed the space. The key in your back twisted and turned. By who? By what? Was it really the time to be questioning that?
Was it really the time to question anything when your insides are curling, tighter and tighter, wrung like a wet cloth.
Will you move? Will you move to the script etched into your nerves ? Will you do what you must ? Perform a compulsory play written by a monkey on a neural typewriter ?
Will you make noise? Will you play your tuneless song? Allow raw sound to rip through your throat until your voice box breaks and your ears ring?
Or will you hold it all in?
Wrap you limbs around yourself, numb to your own nails digging into skin. Lock yourself in. Let it all build up. Let it occupy your gut like water filling up a balloon. Let it all in until the balloon bursts.
And then let it all burst out - words and sounds and movements and gestures. You live in a box of glass and, like it or not, it shall be shattered. Sooner or later, it will break.