Sitting. Waiting. Wishing. Hoping that life will spare me today.
So impatient, anticipating the change of atmosphere, but there is none.
Negativity surrounds me; four concrete walls of hostility slowly closing in.
Claustophobia settles in bringing with it the reality that I will never be able to move the walls.
The voices begin next.
"You cannot escape us."
The isolation quickly gives my mind a one way ticket to insanity.
I start to believe them.
I can't get out.
I push on the walls, but they push back harder.
The concrete room soon becomes a minute closet of negativity.
A closet of paranoia, insanity, claustrophobia, schizophrenia, depression.
A closet that I am trapped in with no escape.
I throw myself at the walls, fighting back, hoping it'll make a difference somehow.
But they keep moving in on me without hesitation.
My fight is quickly depleted against the concrete hostility and I am thrown to the ground in failure.
The closet gets smaller.
Paranoia. Insanity. Claustophobia. Schizophrenia. Depression. Hostility. Isolation.
I lay on my back in defeat, staring at the blank ceiling waiting to be crushed by the cold concrete.
Yet, I am not.
The dank closet I have been trapped in stops advancing on me.
The voices have gone.
Confusion doesn't have time to settle in, for a hand appears offering me solace.
It is not a knight in shining armor coming to my rescue.
It is not an aid to heal my wounds.
It is the sweet purity of company.
The hand of a stranger offering to share in my insanity.
Offering to share in my paranoia, my clasutrophobia.
I am tentative to accept, curious if the hand will resemble the once warm walls surrounding me.
However, the hand fights off the isolation.
If fights off my depression and refuses to offer hostility towards my already aching form.
Instead, it offers hope.
Hope that tomorrow these walls will have disappeared, leaving only the hand and I.
Joined in our phobias, I feel no need to wait, wish, or hope.
My faith has been restored by that one sweet stranger.