The Wall

It isn't perfect. It isn't secure. It isn't impenetrable. But it's the best I have. The wall has flaws, cracks, gaping holes that I try to hide from all eyes, because the wall is all I have...I hide behind it, trap all the horror and terror there. I lock away all the hurts that I cannot control, and all the joys too. Because anything of any strenght might make me lose control, might bring the whole wall down. And that wall keeps me sane. I need the wall, need the control it brings. Control is life. Without it, I would not exist. Without it, I would be dead. Control is key. Anything that cannot be completely, utterly controlled, goes behind the wall. And when anything gets out, disaster. When control is lost, all is lost. Fires burn across the land that is me, the places outside of the wall, barren places because all has been taken from them and hidden away behind that wall. Better barren than wasted. Better dead than nonexistant.
But the wall isn't perfect. It breaks, collapses, shatters. And when it does, I panic. I fear. I struggle with the fires, with the falling stones, straining to build the wall back up and lock the flames away again. Lock them away before they can destroy what little is left of the wasteland that is me. I am desolate. I am darkness. I am isolation. I am emptiness. I am nothing. I am nothingness. The fires destroyed everything in me except that which was locked away. I am death, but not yet am I nonexistance. Ta me anseo. I am still here. There is simply nothing in me. The wall is ice, and yet does not melt to the fires within, not yet. I can still keep it cold. I just cannot keep it from shattering. It comes apart more and more, and I dread the day when I cannot build it back up again. I've lived with the wall for so long, I do not know how to survive without it. And yet I am losing it...and soon the fires will rage rampant across my barren soul...