Agoraphobic

To outsiders the house seems like a prison, no locks but chains on ankles that make the walk from the dining room to the front door unnavigable. The cords to the window shades are beyond reach and if they could be grasped the stabbing, the burning, the charge of pain in the shoulder and the wrist and the hips would prevent their hoisting. There might be a small circle of white cloud above one shade across which dark birds migrate, the sky appearing cold and uninviting, and above it only the universe imagined as an endless descent. But for the inmate, the cell is warm, colors and flavors can be imagined, one is never too cold or too thirsty, too noisy or too naked, and if the phone isn’t answered, there’s no one sharing the news or asking questions.