It’s like watching your life through the window of a house with no doors. Everything looks normal on the outside but you can’t hear what’s going on. You scream but the sound doesn’t escape your mind. It’s a damn well-built home. Any passerby bold enough to peer into your abode may wave, but they would only be confused by the curious construction, consider you eccentric, and keep walking. You’re trapped and alone, but rather than plan your escape, all you can think about is “How the hell did I get in here?! Did someone build this house around me? How could I not notice? Why did I not simply leave before they built these walls with a roof?” The only conclusion is that you built it yourself, but you don’t know shit about construction, Q. How did you do it?! It’s maddening!
The obvious solution is to break the window. But the single room home is empty. White walls. No furniture. No blunt objects. Not even shoes on your feet. You’re nude—no wonder they keep walking! Nothing you can use for escape except your wits and your fists.
You don’t trust your wits. They were too dull to notice the damn house being built in the first place. So that leaves your fists. You punch the glass only to discover that you’re weakened. Malnourished. No fridge or food in this colorless room. How long’s it been since you’ve had sustenance? How long did it take to build this prison? Long enough, it seems. Or perhaps the glass is tempered?
It’s a paradox either way. You’re weakened, that is certain. If the window is strong, it will be harder to break, and your knuckles will bruise and bleed in the attempt. If the window is weak, it will shatter indiscriminately, and jagged shards will undoubtedly pierce and scar your arms. Reality dawns. You must use your wits to feed your spirit, and then you must fight this invisible foe…but there is no escaping unscathed.
You look forlornly out the window and wonder at all the smiling faces and welcoming arms, “Is there anything out there for me?”
Depression is weird.