The quiet room of white

Blain, Mark



"The Quiet Room of White" By Mark W.R. Blain The stillness inside the white room is near to maddening. There's no sound that penetrates its padded dimensions. It's so utterly devoid of sound that I'm almost certain I can hear the air passing over my nasal hairs as I breath in through my nose. [THIS] is supposed to be therapeutic, but clearly those who propound its curative affectation have not personally subjected themselves to it... O, I cackle in derision. There's only one window -- too high to reach. Thus, I cannot see the view it [MAY] offer; no way to see out of it. The ceiling in the room is at least 14 feet high, and the window is only about a foot below the ceiling. Why? Why is there a window if no one can make use of its design? I am sooooooo deprived of sensory input that my imagination conjures up a beautiful and serene landscape outside the window. How long have I been in here? I take note of a dimming period where the illumination through the window is only an eerie grayish emittance. Then, after awhile, the brighter illumination returns. This is the [ONLY] contrast I know. What does it mean? I do not have a way to tangify this. Over -> (2) I kind of like the eerie grayish emittance; it seems to be calling to me, almost in a comforting siren-like song... ... but, wait, that's not possible, is it? There's no sound [IN] this quiet room of white! I am now, seemingly, perplexed. Time? Time? What is time? Is that even a word? A concept? How am I to determine what's real/unreal? I know only the quiet room of white. Is there no means whereby I can distinguish something? Anything? This existence is without form, [VOID]! Are there other rooms like this? How does one get [IN] a quiet room of white? Better, yet, how does one get [OUT]? There seems to be a vague memory coming to the forefront of my mind. Yes, I recall something: I was forced into this quiet room of white when I was 12 years old. How old am I now? O, my God! I'm 60 years old! What happened? I have known NOTHING beyond that door to that quiet room of white, except insanity, for 48 years now. A lifetime of despair. A journey beyond reality, through vast visions of unknown time; and now [I KNOW]: I know what it's like to exist in a life of any meaning. The End

Author: Blain, Mark

Author Location: Virginia

Date: 2021

Genre: Essay

Extent: 2 pages

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