You don’t know what it’s like to lose your home. To one day find that the bed you sleep in is now in a strange world, to know it was forced there and you had no choice. You don’t know the pain of waiting months just to be able to conjure up the strength to write this, the train ride, will eventually culminate as you confront your apparition within the abyss of the lonely four-walled white room. But there is a square window. Broad, clear. Not protected by those meshes, it’s crystalline-clear. And you can see the clouds, cotton white, a blue canvas, the streaming sunlight penetrates the window, and it’s burning sweetly on my face. I can’t paint obscure things, but this is the painting of freedom. Painting of knowing I can still venture into the world, and embrace the skies that brought me up, the sunlight that never fails to surprise me. I don’t have many friends, but God gives me the beauty of the world, and I believe, even if I can’t have it in the palm of my hand, I’d still run, still run to freedom. It seems unbearable, but time heals the wounds, sometimes self-inflicted, that we deem unrepeatable. I can hear it now, in the dead of night, and I want to believe it’s the beginning of a sensation.