I think I might have gone insane. Might have been locked up in the attic long ago and spent so much time there that no matter where I go I’ll always be in the attic of my head. Become talented enough in my psychoticisms that I can hurt myself without moving a muscle, just by staring into the darkness for hours, imagining. Thinking about that boy that I kissed once and how wonderful it might be to have someone in that darkness to hold me, to keep my shoulders warm. How I’m stomping around in the attic in my head, shrieking down NO NO NO at the empty mechanics of my brain, spinning wildly, playing a daydream nightmare of memories to amuse myself, wide awake, insomniac me. How the dust falls from the attic’s floorboards to nothing, no one behind the wheel because if I were in charge well I sure wouldn’t allow this to happen! I can’t find the latch from inside, Mr. Rochester, and so the house goes on walking on its own, blind and using sensitive lips to find whatever it is it’s looking for, and I am staring out of a cobwebbed window shaking with fear and rage, but helpless! So helpless. Jane, it’s not the wind in the halls, I’m simply screaming my head off; but only inside my head so that it bounces around the walls of my skull until I fall over from the violence of it but the house looks quiet from outside.
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