Suffocation in the cell

I'm trapped in this world
Lonely and fading
Heart broke and waiting
For you to come
We are stuck in this world
That's not meant for me
For me

There is an eerie comfort to this, the heavy air... the darkness that closes in on me, threatening to swallow me whole. This is life now, this is all that I know. The decay and rot of my brain, memories that have long ago lost meaning, feelings that are nothing more than cobwebs on the bricks to this cell, this dark prison that is mental illness.
I have learned to simply just exist inside of this, to accept the shadows in the corner of the room, the whispering voices... the hateful, ugly things that they say under their breaths, I have told myself long ago to pay them no attention. Always echoing the same things, always lingering in those shadows, creeping forward but never showing itself to the full extent. It exists and that is all.
Every so often sunlight manages to slip into this cell, warm and inviting, encouraging life inside these weak hands, but never lasting long... I always hunger for more, it's only ever just enough to keep me going, to give me something to hold on for.

I exist inside of a cell, a prison of torment and rot and decay within my own mind. This is life now, this is mental illness. I can't even recall a time when I wasn't sick, like the cobwebs that collect dust, there's a hint of something that once existed, but the butterfly that got caught in the web is long since dead, and the spider has moved on to other prey.

Feelings are often clouded things, there's no clear image of what it's supposed to be, or even what it is. Much like a person sleepwalking, drifting by in a semi-sedated, auto-pilot mode, that's me. That is how I function most days, I feel very little and observe almost nothing around me, I fade it out. All I can hope to do is simply exist, exist but not fully observe, and rarely ever interfere with anything or anyone around me.

Like an inmate waiting on death row, I bide my time, drifting about in a near dreamlike state, hardly noticing anything in the physical world around me. I have small moments of mental clarity, like standing outside in the sunlight for the first time in years, I have moments when suddenly emotions come rushing back to me in full swing, overwhelming and beautiful, colorful after spending so long in the dull, damp, dark and grey of the cell. I taste the fresh air, I hear the birds chirping, I feel the warm breeze on my skin, but all too soon I am ushered back inside.

My mental illness is a cell, I am my own Warden, and delirium is my death sentence, my memories and trauma are the executioners.