The Rooms That Hold Our Power

I never go in here. Or any of these rooms, actually. There are rows and rows of these cavernous rooms, all with doors and locks. Some of the doors scream. Some weep.

This is where every bad day goes. Every bad moment. I leave just enough to remember the lesson, but I put the power of those moments here, in boxes. Some are labeled, though, frankly, most aren’t.

I know that this isn’t processing, but my emotions are just too big and they make me a person no one wants to be around because I feel too much.

I feel what others feel. I sense what others sense.

But when it’s my emotions, they block out everything. They’re big and loud and blaring.

They change the color of the room. They change the sound, the smell.

And I can’t think.

There’s a lot of power in these rooms, power I’m afraid of.

Maybe that’s the reason others hated me when I felt things. Maybe they were scared of me too. And that’s the reason they used the people I loved to silence me.

But now, these rooms are just a mess of screams and lights and smells and… memories.

I know there are some very, very bad memories in here.

But there are good ones in here too, the kind that could be used against me. The kind of memories that would be used as knives and swords and shards.

Why do I want to tell stories to people? Why do I want to help people when those I trusted hurt me?

Hope?

Haven’t I tripped over that lie enough? Aren’t I done with that yet?

And yet, that is the only light that burns in here. It’s the only steady pulse.

What would life be like if I opened just one of these boxes and looked inside? Touched what I hid in here?

Who would suffer the repercussions of the actions they never felt consequences for before?

Well, that’s tempting. Isn’t it?