Photo taken January 24, 2016
Window
They don’t know.
They can’t know and I can never
explain it to them.
That I live, and always have
lived, behind a wall.
A wall with a window that only
serves to taunt me
and remind me of the fact that I
can never climb through it
and be a part of the Real World.
I live on the sidelines because I
can’t take part in normality.
Because normality can’t help me
and I can’t help it or those who
dwell there.
We are too far disconnected and
the gap is uncrossable.
Is it? Is it?
Yes! It is! I’ve tried so many
times!
I’ve tried and it never works!
The best I’ve been able to do is
pretend.
Delude myself into thinking that
I’ve reached through the window
and clasped the branch of the
tree just outside it.
Clung to that branch and for that
moment, owned it,
when in fact my hand only teased
the air
and closed in on itself, empty as
it had always been.
My closed fist can only pound on
the wall for the millionth time.
It’s not my world. It never has
been.
Mine is the world from which I
see and don’t touch.
From which I hear and don’t cry
out.
From which I smell and never
taste.
Windows are not doors. They are
to look through, not climb through.
If only that damned wall had a
door.
But it doesn’t… and I don’t care.
Jelynn Millare © 2005
***
I wrote the above poem when I was 22 and till I posted an excerpt onto my Instagram yesterday after taking the above photo, only 2 other people had ever read it in 11 years. I'm not sure that it bears testament to my being any less afraid of sharing my writing considering the ever-delightful blend of fear and desire that overtakes any creative undertaking (not to mention, I'm still reluctant to even class this as a poem and it took me a somewhat agonising half hour to finally get over myself and put it up). It's unveiling is ultimately the product of a few test photos on my phone leading to a sudden charge of memory and the desire to share trumping my fear of judgement.
I know we have all been there. Everyone has experienced or lived through something that makes them feel alone or strange or different. Everyone has had hopes that maybe things would get better, that maybe things were looking up, only to have reality completely knock that flimsy house of cards right down.
I've written a bit on here about the emotional fallout of having a condition which was once firmly stamped on my face and in my daily interactions with people and still nowadays, teeters on the precipice of visible and invisible. I've also definitely touched on the painful desire to creatively speak despite being emphatically ill-equipped for exhibitionism and distinctly reluctant to emotionally overindulge for the sake of being a functioning adult.
I've written a bit on here about the emotional fallout of having a condition which was once firmly stamped on my face and in my daily interactions with people and still nowadays, teeters on the precipice of visible and invisible. I've also definitely touched on the painful desire to creatively speak despite being emphatically ill-equipped for exhibitionism and distinctly reluctant to emotionally overindulge for the sake of being a functioning adult.
The above is merely a snapshot of a once all encompassing mentality that has now been happily relegated to the worst moments and nothing more. The words above will always apply, such is the nature of life and definitely the nature of autoimmune disorders and creative desire, however their power to break me has been severely diminished by struggle, experience and time.
These days, thanks to that time honoured trio, I sustain mere flesh wounds instead of scars.
And even better? I open and close and advance and retreat through the window as I please.
