I’ve been building walls for months now. It’s made of dark trees from a forest only artists know, and only use when they are hurt. They can run and get lost in it, like Snow White when she escapes from the huntsmen. Others lie on the earth and watch the branches sky, just to remember that they and the monsters they fear are small. In the darkest corners of the wood, I’ve seen nooses and love letters along with footprints that have ended. Some of the artists are like me, collecting branches and weaving them together into a home for their heart to take shelter.

I’ve begun covering my dark walls in stickers to remind myself I’m safe here. I’ve begun to put quotes from other artists on the wall, reminders of to be strong and believe in myself. One sticker points to a hole in my wall and says “hole to another universe.” Others remind me of lovely fairytales, of mushroom princesses and cat-shaped macaroons. I began to stick flowers into the wall. “I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.”

At this point, I’m not entirely sure what is on the other side of my wall. The wall won’t let me see anything outside anymore, I made sure of it. I had to end the life of my curiosity, and it was a difficult animal to kill. It was a rabbit with strong legs, all-seeing eyes, and a cute little pink nose that knew no better but to smell everything. God, it could run, it could run all day. The wall did nothing to stop it, as its clever legs could dig under and rush away. I killed it myself a month ago in a loving hug that was too tight.

There are others like me, I know it. We all know there are others like us, though we cannot find each other. No one can find you, and that’s why we are here. We all made the woods together, with each tree made from our overflowing souls. The artists of old we hear of, those that overflowed so too much that no glass could hold them; they probably are the ones who planted the seeds of this place. It’s safe here.

What made me run to these woods? I think more of us are running into these woods every day. We are in some form of zombie apocalypse. The monsters usually are not alone, and that is part of why they attack with such confidence. It’s not your art they go for, it’s your heart. The art attracts them like a dinner bell, they hate the art, and their drooling mouths sense your soul somewhere beyond what you’ve made, what you’ve expressed, and they rush you. The difference between them and the rest of mankind is that mankind can hate the art and move on with no thoughts over the maker, but the zombies are hungry. I don’t know why they are so hungry. I don’t know why they chose me.

Once you survive their attacks and make it into the safety of the woods, something is transformed in you. It’s more than that little curious rabbit you had to kill yourself. You see others and wonder, “how long until they lash out at me?” You see places and ask yourself, “am I really safe here?” You see the others gather around your art, and you peek over the wall and that’s the great mistake. If you peek over the wall, you’ll find that they are discussing how to tear you apart. They don’t love you, they hate you. Empathy is dead here. They don’t know you, but they still hate you. They love one thing, and that is hating you. They love it like a shared feast, discussing your ignorant heart over red wine, your ugliness over fine cheeses, and their righteousness over sourdough bread.

So what of those who do know us? Do we really feel safe with them? Those who have been attacked too long have the same answer as me. It’s a dark “no,” a back chilling “no.” Our forest echoes with distrust for mankind. Now whenever someone so much as judges us, we just see the zombies, their dead eyes not seeing us, yet coming after us in a nightmarish gallop. You come to the realization that zombies exist in everyone. Even your own friends can see art is a dinner bell. You invite them in and stare in horror as they bring forks and knives, ready to dig into you. And so we run into the dark woods and gouge out our eyes and take out our own tongues, to kill the creatures in our hearts that know no better than to be exposed.

Another artist once told me, “We are saving the world with our hearts.” I added that quote to my dark wall and decorated it with pink and blue tape. It reminded me of when I was a kid, before the woods, before the zombies. I wish the others lost in these woods can see it and draw from its power. Remember who they really are.

Behind my wall, I continue my heart’s work. When the work is done, I slip it under the wall for the wind to carry out of the woods for the hoards and survivors. I live in my little wall, hoping that maybe one day, someone will slip paper under my door and fill it with lovely words. A response that is not blood-soaked, someone that sees me, that loves me. Someone who will listen with kindness, even when they disagree, and no matter what, have my back in this hard world.