No Asylum

It is his mother, holding a sweaty hand, and trying to, again look into his blue eyes, those eyes that she has known since that fat midwife, the one who smelled of licorice, stopped yelling 'push'. Only today, since yesterday, a world has shattered, into a trillion little shards of timeless quartz, the faceless crowd of orderlies, and arrogant white starchy nurses, has taken him away, to medicate, pontificate, obliterate, incinerate perhaps the last of his, and thus of their true bond. They yell from down the hall, and walk unreal rhythms while whistling to the song which has not been composed, as yet, perhaps it never will. He smokes incessantly, and she is happy, about the humanness of it, a weakness of great promise, he will return, and soon, God praise the competence and its compassion of Modern Medicine. No more asylums, sanitariums of gloom, locked into kind despair and catatonic smiles, it is just Haloperidol and bugger all Olanzapine, no greater luck could come to those who have been dropped into the hole of no return, and all of them will gain the notoriety of fulminating obesity. It makes them cuddly, though, and easier to take, for those who care for them without a care inside their hearts. There used to be a stigma, it was condemned and universally subdued through simple changes in appearances, today the stigma is, for all of them, the God who let it be.