Padded Room

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I’d love to have a padded room. I could lock myself inside and stretch and smile and maybe even giggle a little crazily.

“I’m free!” I would whisper, then say aloud, then SHOUT. All that might answer could not, for the padding.

Inside would be a beautiful wood floor, supporting a comfortable chair and desk. Perhaps I’d have plants, too -a sort of alien variety that maintained itself despite neglect. Naturally, they and the furniture would sit before two glorious, turreted windows.

Didn’t I mention the windows? The view they afforded would lay your concerns about a full wall padding to rest; since, from it, one could see the rather lofty and inaccessible position of the room. It would need to be; to afford me the grandest sightings of brickwork buildings, iron-wrought balconies, French cafés, lushly summered parks, and tiny walking people far below.

Of course, it would always be sunset. The weather could change, and the seasons, but reddened rays of fire must continually warm my panic room in calming inspirations of color. ‘Twould be just the right shade to set the wood floor glowing.

As I’d sit smilingly before the computer, the finest quality audio equipment would begin to play. For light, thoughtful prose, realistic strains of instrumental genius would do. Dubstep film remixes would work well when deadlines were near and thoughts were far. Angry yell-songs could be perfect, justified irritants when life outside the padded walls might threaten entry.

My distractions, however, could not get in. I’d be blissfully unaware. I would read and write for hours as the world revolved in its real-time mundane monotony. How lovely, I’d note, that the padding is on the outside.

 

unsplash-logoKinga Cichewicz

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