Today, 10 years ago, I saw a small window. A pinprick of light through my swelling, thickening, all-encompassing, Blanket.
My Blanket had taken on the pressure of personality. It wove through every crack and crevice, an expert Savior against the pain of light. Against the eye crust that day always brings, against tiny squint slits and piercing shrieks of white, My Blanket comforted me, covered me.
What was warm and familiar was the taking hand of decomposition. Rolling fingers of linen surrounded in to cradle, changing, shifting to a soft and light coffin. And I lie, eyes awake, beneath the Blanket. My Blanket.
Time is absent under the Blanket. Convictions and urges of life and society become foreign language. Utters from outside become muffled and twisted. Under-Blanket is the only reason, all else is senseless lost tongues that never were. Never will be. Because sanity is relative to your side of the Blanket.
Sanity is relative.
Well-reasoned and intelligent eyes have scanned the world under the Blanket, and I know. I know that well-reasoned and intelligent eyes flush away friendships and family, because they don’t support life under the cozy-cover Blanket. The honest and truest minds under the Blanket ignore side-eyed stares and recognize that no one outside is real anyways. No-one, no-where, no-thing outside the Blanket matters. Nothing is real but My Blanket. Clutched tight, I know.
Flashes of light try heartily to peek through. They pulse like sun slivers through the windows of a tunneled train, telling ‘truths’ of your demise, my demise. Short, fleeting. But the Blanket returns to protect.
The Blanket is persistent. It’s warmth is comforting, its tendrils and claws tight and familiar. Protection from the light at the cost of freedom, of sharp and everlasting raw-nerve pain, of learning to live. Tight and familiar claws cling tremulously, smother, and protect.
Protect from the tiny window of light.
10 years ago today I crawled, angry and tired at the grasp of My Blanket. Warmth smothering, sweaty. Ugly, Ugly escape from my crushing, whispering, beautiful Blanket. Writhing free, cut head to toe, through the tiny window of light.
Those scars don’t heal, and I don’t wish them away. Head-to-toe, the marks, pink and smooth, once crimson and wet from the exit feel like My Blanket when I run my fingers over them. My Blanket, 10 years past, is right here, comforting, and haunting, my thoughts. When I run my fingers, I remember.
I remember well-reasoned and intelligent thoughts that the world outside, not My Blanket, was plotting and nefarious. I reminisce the warm and familiar hand of decomposition, the suffocating, lovely, crushing life under the Blanket. Tendrils and claws pressed, hooked to my flesh. The terror of opening my eyes to the world, the Blanket personality that became my own.
Until I found my tiny window of light. 10 years ago today, my tiny window of light.