[This is a fictional entry!]
Pillows. Thousands of pillows.
That’s what my room is filled with: pillows. Okay, maybe not thousands, but there are at least a hundred pillows in my room. I gave them all names that are derived from either how/when I got them or the patterns and images on the outside. Some are larger; many more are smaller. I have one shaped like an alpaca and another that has been made like puffy but too-small quilt.
When I sit on my piles of pillows and look out over the city, buzzing with life and the pursuit of unhappiness through every means imaginable, I sip my medicine and imagine it altogether changed: the headlights of the passing cars are falling stars; angry honks that disturb what little calmness there is in the city are actually giant geese that tell me tales of what lies beyond my castle walls that I can never leave; every man rushing by yelling on the phone and chugging coffee despite its temperature is really one of the many knights who have tried and continue to try to save me from the hoard of pillows.
But it’s not so bad.
The pillows are a comfort. Really, they are.
The pinpricks in my skin don’t hurt because I can transfigure myself into a dragon with millions of impenetrable scales that protect my frail and pale skin. The whiteness of the walls are just stretched canvases for me to paint the world as I see it – next time I have the strength, of course, which will be any day now. Blinding lights aren’t too bright to me, though everyone else complains, because I’m the daughter of Helios. Even when all I can see and hear out the window are the light of falling stars and the sound of giant geese, I know that my father’s carriage will come again, and with it, hope for a new day.
Others don’t see my world; they say it’s too cold and sterile and bright, but they just haven’t come to realize that I’ve made my own world to curl up in and survive, and it’s so much more luxurious than theirs.