hsphaven

I gaze out the hospital window to a quaint garden. On the other side is the brick psychiatry consulting suits. The building has two storeys. My eyes fall on a little porch with a lone chair. It seems like something that would appeal more to a poet or a philosopher rather than a doctor, or the modern psychiatrist at least.

How lovely it would be if patients could sit in the garden. But it is a secret garden, a garden that is out of reach, like my healing. I cannot even open my window to take in the fresh air. Real fresh air, not the pungent scent of artificial air fresheners which get into my room and invade my nostrils.

I hear some birds outside. Spring is on the way. But inside I feel trapped in August, like parts of me remain trapped in youth or childhood, in lives beyond lives. Trapped in the bitterness of winter, hope just a tease. In my world, in my mind, Spring doesn’t really come. I can see it happening around me but I am trapped behind glass.