This room used to be my world. I would sit, and write, and my eyes to the world outside would come through as post, letters, handwritten and hard-considered, for the cost of paper, patience, and postage. Once, a window, which looked out into a garden of posies, the color in my dim world. This was indeed a prison, but I was-- I am free. The world is imprisoned, and I am here free.
A new window was installed, and now my world is still brighter than ever. The post still comes, in moments instead of days, soon enough that too much thought of consequence goes right out the... well, window.
It's a window to the world, wider than that draped with curtains, more vibrant, more fast paced, more breathless. Sometimes, I yearn for paper and pen, mediums of a slower version of this world, when thought went into every word set down, when the world was smaller, and I felt not so tiny.
But I find myself drowning as much as ever. I can share my art, even as little as I think of some pieces, but I'm floundering in a realm of pictures and movies. My words are sometimes simple, but they tear at my heartstrings, and it takes closing the window to rebuild them.
A photograph takes a moment of attention, a painting a week of patience, a movie a month of planning but a relative moment to record. A poem takes my whole soul, my whole being, my whole likeness, my whole life... and courage. Courage to stand in the darkness long enough to desire the light. Courage to wait in hell long enough to wish for heaven. Courage to feel myself dying, and the world dying around me, and to let it die.
There is no immortality here, though they say everything is kept. Only obscurity, if you cannot find someone or somewhere to be found, read, listened to, understood. Even if they cannot edit the words, they can edit their understanding of them, and sometimes that is too much.
Sometimes, I yearn for my paper, my pens, and ever dream of posies.