The Hospital

I love looking in the windows of a mental hospital in my small city.  I mean, the walls are brick, and the lighting appears to be terrible, but I still like to see the outlines of the people.

The building itself looks like a war zone to me, but it’s not.  It’s a place for healing, a place for being, if you will. The window sills are a bright red, the same red that matches the doors, and I feel really happy to look in there.

I’m not going to lie, I used to be scared of such a place, especially when I found out when I was schizophrenic.  I thought that it would be me, that I would go and wind up staying weeks on end in there.  Now, I find nothing but joy and wonder, and I want to go in there.  I want to see people that would help me a lot more.  They’re much better than my friends… Unless you count my boyfriend.  He’s the best.

Today, I saw 2 men looking right back at me as our cherry car zoomed by them.  They looked amused by the sight of me, and I, amused by the sight of them.  I wanted to know more about them: their names, their ages, if they had schizoaffective disorder like myself… I would love to know all about them.  Of course, maybe they’d hate me or something.  I would’ve loved to try regardless.

Is it bad to have such a longing to become one of the people within the walls of the asylum?  I don’t long for the problems they have….

I just want somewhere to belong.

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