• I harbor my insanity in a small white room with darkened shadows hanging in every corner. There is no door, there are no windows, yet the openings I percieve are all barred with dirty steel and slaked in tears that I have not shed. I do not call this place my heart, for it does not beat out my life's blood, and control where or whom I love and hate. I do not call it my mind for it is a place without logic or reason. It is a place without a name or without a time, which is appropriate as it harbors every part of me that has no rhyme or reason. A place where night is day and stars are moons. It's not a room like you find in hospitals or in movies, all padded from floor to ceiling where one must stand wrapped in cloth to keep from hurting themselves because insanity is not a fragile thing. It holds it's own fortifications against bombardments of drugs and attacks of shock therapy. No, insanity must be caged and locked away from others so it does not infect them like some disease that kills on sight. So I lock it all away in this room that does not exist and pretend I've never seen it. But the truth is I am not the only one who a room that looks like this one, I have seen all of your rooms in passing. I know they are there and chose to ignore you in the hallway on the way to my own. But one day when the world has become to much or not enough, I will meet you in the hallway outside my white room, and I will shake your hand, and say I know you. I have seen you here before.