Mine is a quiet rebellion.
Sitting in the little haven I wrought with fairy lights and a glitter lamp from when I was small and saw reindeer weaving through the capsule. Here I spin a web of words. A tangled web with too many words, too thick and not far enough in between. Words with no origin, nor a destiny. But I want to show you how warm it is, this place I hide. Bedroom a mosaic of wood finishes each one deviant from the next; purple velvet hung to dilute daylight, burned out in places so the rays come through in rings, but night rained long ago and extinguished the curtain into surrounding darkness. Treasures, a mass of tangled beads and chains belonging to masks and headpieces and chokers, consume the surface of the black lace table mat on which I arranged them. They speak in glint and moody charm. Only missing are black bed sheets and velvet hung from the walls to catch light that slipped past the curtains. Also, a tapestry rich with texture to settle over the carpet. And a Victorian chandelier. Christmas is near but because no one knows of this wishlist it is up to the imagination to give my room these gems. And yes this language is tangled because I am twisted up but that's okay because I don't deny it. I am safe here because this is my asylum.
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