The walls aren’t yellow. No real windows, just painted windows on the wall. Can anyone say tacky? The walls are hard, probably cinder blocks, India drags her knuckles from high to low, letting gravity pull her hand down. India can feel the bones penetrate the epidermis, the flesh pilling like that old wool sweater. India would love to get the red on the inside all over these walls, I mean “windows”. I’d write whatever they want to hear me say in blood for them to read, for them to diagnose. They think they’re so much better than me because they want to keep living, what they don’t know is that all India wants is to leave, India didn’t say anything about living. Not because India’s a pity case either, because India is tired of circles, whatever happened to nice neat lines? Everyone takes lines for granted; imagine if you had to read a book that was written on circles instead of lines? That’s what India thought.
India doesn’t know what’s worse, the small windows with bars going from hell to heaven, or a painting posing as a window? All this does is toy with my brain’s sense of space. There’s about as much space in here as there is in a mother’s womb when her baby is 2 weeks late. People, they always make like babies are so content inside their mothers. Well they’re probably not. They probably can’t wait to get the hell out of the uterus bag and be a line, they’re sick of the fetal position, it’s too much like a circle. We all grow up wanting to be a line. Everyone on the outside has to idealize what they don’t really know. Babies like being in utero and India likes getting therapy. Ha! India wants to get better. Face it; we don’t know what it’s like to be inside our mother, even though we’ve all been there. Which leads me to believe that it’s the only time we’re able to experience life. India didn’t say living, because living requires memory. Without any memory we can’t recall life. But when we are really living, we can’t remember, think about it. Each time you remember something, you are going into the recess of your brain, and pulling it out. How are you possibly living if you are digging into the past? To really live would require a complete fusion of mind, body and spirit. The fusion would take place somewhere inside the spacious dimensions of a second, it’d be like a dream house on the tip of a needle that’s about to euthanize your favorite dog.
Speaking of the past, I can tell you I am really living, because I haven’t the foggiest idea as to what year it is. If I had to guess I’d say I’m here, which is contingent upon the present, but it’s so far in the past that it’s the future. “Why is it so far in the past, the doctor will ask India?” He won’t really care, it will be a test, and if he likes my response, I may or may not be one step closer to the outside. And then India will respond “well doctor right now I am so far in past because my future requires I am dead in order to be with my husband and our baby”. But instead of being dead and on my way to be with Hal and Emma, I’m stuck in this cyclical version of hell. What does Dante call it?
Proximity without Intimacy, yeah that’s India now. I know there are cameras that watch me, or maybe they’re people, watching through peepholes. There are no women in the yellow wall paper. There’s no oven either, if there was an oven I could be like Sylvia. India doesn’t want to be like Sylvia because she’s unoriginal, but because India wants to leave, Sylvia wanted to leave and she found a way. But instead everyone tries to protect India from what she wants. And that my diligent reader is an example of how time is a circle, so this linear perspective our calendars give us is shit. They told me I’d have Emma in my arms in 9 months and my Hal back soon after. He looked so handsome in his dress blues.
Since I’ve figured out this circular hell, I’ve had to finagle a way to make my exit. I’ve had to think up a way to politely bow out. India is going to share my secret with her reader. You know, the one on how I am going to leave this “treatment center”, they prefer we not call them insane asylums or mental hospitals. Apparently those words are kitsch. We like to tread lightly around the obvious here.
We’ve established that life is circular, that life depends on a back and forth pull, life is defined by death, night is tempered by day, happiness is guarded by sadness. Without the back in forth time is stagnant. They can’t control my breath from their cameras. So this is what India’s going to do.
I’m going to exhale until my life is linear. I’m going to exhale until my insides come out. When my baby came out she died. She inhaled, and exhaled forever. I know you’re jealous faithful reader. You’re thinking, why can’t I die by an infinite exhalation? I can’t tell you. All India can tell you is that dying by a perpetual exhale is creative. India must be a writer. India wrote her way out of this assignment.