Dear White.
What is white if not just a colour?
That's what divides us.
Is it really just an emotionless bi product of a colour filled spectrum, which when bouncing off a reflective surface comes into contact with our simplistic eyes, rendering all the individual colours null.
Or is it an expression of such symbolic values as innocence and youth, a purity that radiates and is ever emitting from the Christian religion, in which then the colour holds no logical boundaries, but serves as the clothing of this mysterious Jesus that we al learn of at a young impressionable age.
Well, whatever 'true' definition that it depicts, it is a colour that is used for such vile and insidious locations. A place for misunderstood misfits to be kept incarcerated in with as a partner for the rest our their life. By this i mean the asylum for 'mentally incapable' members of society, or maybe the generic "nutty ward" that us "nut jobs" and "loons" reside in.
Oh you scorn and you stare.
"Poor lad, he was only young. He had to lose it at such an early age!"
"Don't look at him, they are bad people, they are nasty people!"
Yeah, i heard many of these lines, discriminating and derogative. They stare and they point, they ACCUSE.
WHY! Is it not conceivable that i might have been a normal citizen like yourself once. Oh yes, that's right. I was someones son, someones lover – oh Christie – i might be your family member!
Oh, i know what you are thinking as you read this letter. But can you not hear me out for i can't hurt you.
No, i reassure you. How am i even expected to hurt myself when i am caged in a white – no, a stained yellowish white – box. The cushioning softness around the walls. I scream and shout; kick out and yell in pure rage (a dark black rage) as they fight to strap me into that cold rancid table. It's leather straps always biting hard at my wrists and ankles. I keep fighting – a pointless struggle – against its final impending grip. But always does the needle penetrate my arm forcing me to an oppressive silence.
This, like clockwork, always happens and always will. That's why i am given a crayon and a piece of paper, to let my anger and my feelings go. But like a child it always comes out wrong. But this time i am sure of what i want – no – wanted to say. I wrote it.
For i found a way to escape. The kind lady gave me some pills and sent me back to my cell.
I found that hard steel structure under the white foam. I bit and tore into the white polymer-coated foam until my hope and desperation broke through the white barrier to the cold harsh grey beneath. With the force left from my remaining strength (that is if I am not to full of medicated shit to try) i will release myself into the hands of the coroner as my body lays in a body bag, just to be put into an unnamed headstone!
But I must say a farewell to this white shadow that was once cast oer me asI leave this hell and descend to somewhere that will accept me!
Fairwell Silent Hill - thine asylum stake me down no more!