Make me a friend on Twitter. |
Feeling: I discovered something strange. Usually when I'm getting dressed I put on my clothes, and when I am fastening my belt I pull it until it's tight and then let it slide back so that the hook can catch. Today, it didn't slide. I seem to be losing weight since I got on antidepressants, whereas most people gain weight. This rocks!
He's got knotty arms and legs and a foreboding, unblinking stare that can't be the result of anything alive. It's a machine meant to control my activities. (He actually resembled the "Foot soldiers" from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, if you ever have seen the cartoons.)
No matter where I go, or what I do, they interfere. I can't try to do anything at the computer, or watch television, or leave, or fix dinner, or make a phone call. I'm a prisoner in my own home, no hope, no chance.
I am standing in a long line of people on a conveyor belt. The walls are featureless and black, like obsidian, and only every twenty feet or so there are lights that shine onto the belt, the inbetween areas being in shades of grey.
While the belt moves, everyone is turned facing forwards, but looking around as voices shout down at us asking questions. The belt begins to turn a corner, and it begins to ask me questions, and I feel like someone is prodding and inspecting me like a lab rat.
"Are you still looking for another job?"
"Yes," I answer, looking up trying to ascertain where the voice is coming from.
"Are you still walking every day?"
"No. Why do you want to know?" This is ticking me off. I already felt pretty stressed out.
"Why did you stop doing the things you did?"
"Like what?"
"You don't do the things that you did before?"
"I don't know, I told you. I am trying!"
The rest of the people keep going around the curve. A hole opens in the wall near me and I start travelling through it, through the "reject slot."
|