Bastille

And it's been like this for days. The only light comes from the barred window. At night, or at least I think it's night, the darkest corners swallow up everything insight until I;m left scalded from the burn that is frigid darkness and fear.

And I try to shout for their help. To tell them, I'm going mad. That I'm seeing paranoia personified and demons that taunt my fancy. But maybe that's why I'm confined. 

I'm a danger, I think. I'm not fit to be outside there. This darkness, these delusions I have, are punishment. 

I see things. I see the guards laughing so mirthful. They laugh at my fits of insomnia and the pain I feel towards myself. They're dressed so strangely, with coats of vibrant hue and gilded panels and tights. They're faces are concealed with golden masks. 

I wish I had a mask. I feel as through everything I try to hide breaks through and runs down my face. I wish I was better at hiding my demons.

But maybe I am. Hiding that is. In the recesses of this place. Maybe I like the darkness, and the way it eats up every spark I have, every exhilaration I have burning in my soul. Maybe I like feeling hollow and surrounded. I like feeling my demons wander through and through and taunt me, and prod me, scorn me. 

Or maybe I'm just pretending to be hidden far away.

Maybe, my mind is a bastille, and everything I struggle against is holding me there. 

I'm a prisoner to my mind.