I like chains. You know what chains do, right, they keep you safe. So you’re always at the same place. You know what chains do, right? The metallic snakewind does a good job hugging my feet. They are kept firm and is etching into my ankle like a bracelet - but for ankles. I can sit in a chair and stare at the chains. I smell the chains too: rusty (which is totally fine) and metallic, with a hint of WD-40. They make chains extra smooth so they hug firmer.

Lock-door combinations. I like them too, As useless as a door without a lock, a lock without a door doesn’t get anywhere either. That’s why I find lock-door combinations here ingenious. Much more than exquisite marble slabs, lock-door combinations prevent burglars and murderers, and it also shut out any intentions for becoming a burglar or murderer ourselves. Doors here are beautiful. The vast vast majority are functional. Burnt-hazel polish over fractured (in an aesthetically pleasing way) marble, a slit for letters through the middle. Makes it feel like home.

The guardians slide the doors open daily for our productive exercise time. I like it when the doors creak open and sunlight flows in with enthusiasm, bouncing and glistening atop the polish. Defrosting that is. The aromatic airs and coruscating colours flow into the opening, trumpeting its flamboyance by the chains, weaving around my fingers. They hoot and toot. I can stare at them.

You get me, right? You’re simply not allowed. Not allowed. You get it? Get it? Are all chains clunky and made of steel? Are all locks and doors pinned on doorframes?

Footsteps. Clunk-boom, clunk-boom. The daily let-out approaches.

Today feels awfully good. The door creaks open as usual, overwhelming me with vigorous bursts of light, aroma and colours. Sunny. I stare at the door, drooping a half-smile as the lovely guardian enters to grant me exercise privilege for the day. The de-chaining process wasn’t completely painless and content, but I continue to stare with mild pleasure as my ankles part with its embedded chain. Removing the unusable part of my ankle with shiny, glimmering surgical tools, the helpful guardian peels the chain-links, one by one, away. In the future, the incisions will heal itself. I lift my left foot, put it down; I life my right foot, put it down. They walk. It’s the outside that now stares at me.

Lush artificial green. By artificial I mean something good, as in “artificial intelligence”. Grass blades tickle my feet then emerge between toes, true fans of hide and seek. Their grow in different tints and tones of green, but occasionally yellow or brown traitors pop up then vanish into the background. Shy creatures they are, bending towards the earth away from the passionate sun, thumb-fighting with earthworms. I lay myself on the grass, engulfing myself in their prickling embrace. To my left stands a daisy overlooking my bangs like a smiling gummy bear. Greetings. She looks exactly like me: white fanned-out hair, beige complexion with an add-on smile. But she doesn’t have chains and isn’t behind a door. Don’t get me wrong, chains and doors mean well.

Up there is a sky. The cumulus drifts lazily across the blue, occasionally getting in the way of the sun. It casts a humongous shadow over me, the flowers, and the grass. The expanse extends towards the sky far, far, far away, stretching miles, miles and miles until the boundary softens and fogs. All is tranquil.

People gets puzzled on why I don’t leave. The truth is simple: I don’t know how. I know, I can run, away from my room, far, far, far away, for miles, miles and miles. What is behind that blurred horizon? What if, far away, another pair of firmer shackles, safer doors and locks, and a cloned set of glistening surgical tools await? Plainly, I’m still here because I’m still alive.