Pictures of faces come back to me, but they are nothing more than billboards that my brain glides past, moving at a fixed speed down the middle of a road with no turns or bumps, no rises or falls. The chlorpromazine removes every obstacle that my brain might trip over; it removes every hindrance to my thoughts, and they slip through seas of oil. Yes, the chlorpromazine is a blessing that has descended upon me, the friend who lifts from my shoulders the heaviest of burdens. It is the strong adhesive that holds together the two halves of my brain, removing the confusion, the distorted events, and all manner of deliriums that have fallen into the crack between them. More, the chlorpromazine has begun interacting with another medication to make me feel grateful and quick to express my indebtedness. Behind every action I see good intentions, a desire to serve me, and an attempt to improve the state of my health, both mental and physical. I no longer feel annoyed, for example, that they lock me in. Instead, I see the locked door as a protective measure to keep me safe from any enemies—God forbid—be they external or internal, coming by night or by day. They have fenced me off from myself, equipping my soul with a strong, flexible screen that no feelings or agitations can penetrate.

Thurayya buzzes through my head, for example, and I see her as a fly trying desperately to pierce the screen. She crashes against it and bounces back. My father stands at the window and then steps into the void. He falls onto the pavement, and his soul remains suspended in the air. I turn from him to Mary’s hands, as she kneads dough to make me a pie, then to the balloons that Sa’id is popping, which disappear into plastic scraps of color and spit. I open the Victoria’s Secret bag; shredded fragments of my books fly out, and I read my words. I open my mouth to receive the Eucharist. The other children laugh at me, and the priest places white cotton balls inside my mouth, stuffing them into me as though I am an empty cloth doll. Neda floats up. I too rise in the air and call out for her to see me flying, to see how light I am. Delighted, I fill dozens of pages with a beautiful pen. Its ink runs out after a while, and I see stacks of white pages that I have filled with my black letters. I could be deaf as I see all that, for no sound comes from all the movement I observe through the window of my mind, which glides forward, precise in its movement, rushing ahead without stumbling on anything it passes by …