Childhood was beautiful.
Ruined.
Beautiful on the outside,
like a rotten apple.
Freedom —
illusion and vanity.
Oh, little being…
ignorant,
carefree,
smiling.
Like a butterfly,
drifting
from flower to flower.
An adventurer
in the eyes of the world.
But inside…
bleeding.
Bare feet
in a field of thorns.
Like a patient under anesthesia,
draining of blood
without even knowing.
The pain was there,
but awareness
had not yet been born.
The wounds were many.
The roots,
deep.
Yes…
childhood was beautiful.
Restless.
Bright.
And yet —
already ruined.
Adolescence
fixed nothing.
A rebellious mind,
a small outlaw.
Believing himself
grown,
wise,
powerful,
enough.
Defy the world.
Break the systems.
Conquer.
Acquire.
Accumulate.
A little more aware,
but already distorted.
Still ignorant,
drowning
in the blood
left by the child.
Momentum
after
momentum.
Then —
failure.
Crushing.
Reality —
unforgiving.
At fault?
Never.
Blame the others.
Them, the ignorant.
Them, the cruel.
But like a patient
slowly waking
from anesthesia,
the pain returns.
The wounds
rise again.
Sharp.
Consequential.
Unbearable.
And adolescence
fades away
like smoke.
The fatigue of existence.
The adult is already lost.
Crushed
under weights
he does not even understand.
Forgotten pasts.
The child
bleeding out.
The adolescent
drowning in that blood.
And now —
the adult.
More direct.
More brutal.
Exhausted
by the hypocrisy of the world.
The pretenses.
The fox-like smiles.
Little by little,
rejected
by life,
by society.
Still trying
to spread
the damaged wings
of the adolescent.
To leap —
and fall.
To rise —
and fall again.
And again,
fall.
A heavy heart.
Empty.
No direction.
Seeking refuge
in solitude,
while running
from that same solitude.
Wanting connection,
yet fearing attachment.
Rejected.
Despised.
Pushed away.
Until condemning oneself.
The rupture.
Sharp.
Humiliating.
It ties together
the burdens
of the child
and the adolescent.
Like a bridge
thrown
between two currents.
Chaos.
Indifference.
Rage.
Against everything.
Against oneself, most of all.
In isolation,
actions become conscious.
Repeated.
Calculated.
And slowly,
they turn
into behavior.
Amazement.
Curiosity.
Fascination.
I sat down,
alone, in the back,
watching the rat run.
Its patterns.
Its reactions.
Little by little —
understanding.
Then —
awareness.
Like waking up
from a long nightmare.
Like deciding
to live
for the first time.
The questions unfold:
identity,
love,
freedom,
faith,
relationships,
healing…
With only one tool:
a good instrument —
writing.
My results
do not come
from long studies.
They come
from observation,
exploration,
reflection,
confrontation,
experience.
Far from perfect.
Even less universal.
Because I am not an expert.
Only
an experiment.
And in the end,
I understand:
I am
the rat
in my laboratory.
Author’s Note
This piece was written in reflection of my work. It is not expert writing. It is a point of view on a world that is universal.
Not a statement of absolute truth. What is written here is true to me. Authentic — but personal. Even when my writing touches subjects we all share, it remains shaped by my own experience.
I am the rat in my laboratory stands as a position. Not a figure of certainty. Just a man who has lived, observed, and chosen to express what he sees.
A vision that may be more universal than I am willing to admit.
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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.
I felt this whole thing dragging itself through blood and shame... and then turning around to look straight at it, which really did something to me, I swear. 😣
This poem is an undiluted reflection on this painful business called life. The arrival at writing as resistance towards the end is very moving. Poignant and deeply moving!