Of recent, the past few months, I find myself in this room quite often. It’s as if a switch has been flicked and there’s no cognitive recognition of how to unflick it. I’m lost; I find myself here as if a discarded item of clothing after a night out. It’s 3:33am. Paranoia makes me believe I see this exact time day in and out but I relieve my anxiety by reminding myself that I clock watch, time is no friend of mine though it’s the thing that grabs my attention most throughout the day. It laughs in the face of ideas and plans, it jeers at how little I make use of it, at how my attempts of controlling it are futile.
Inside this room I sit on the floor in the centre, my knees pulled up against my chest, one foot crossed over the over as I bow my head in shame. The four walls are made up of television screens and on them are my thoughts, desires, failures and wishes in neon green type circumnavigating the room; the subtitles to my life.
I don’t want to be in here but freedom is as hard a notion as remaining. My breathing exceeds typical heart rate, I perspire at the thought of the next thought. Insomnia spurs on internal bruising, mind games, schizophrenic reasoning.
The key to the room is hidden, I seek it on a full time basis, to no avail. I’m locked in and whilst I am, I torment myself, repeatedly interrogating, prodding as if a unknown being newly discovered. I’m lost. The room begins swelling with liquid, it forms puddles at my feet, sporadic droplets is the only accompanying noise.
And I just want to be released.
I want it to stop.