What is it like to feel "sad" all the time? How do you cope up with it? Don't you realise that there are people who are far worse than you, who don't complain? I'm not complaining. I just don't know what to say. I've been living inside the world of a cardboard box where every thing looks the same. Everything smells musky and strong and makes my head spin round but it is made out of flimsy atoms that I can easily push away. But the cardboard walls did a good job of hiding the exterior works and it was too late when I realised that there was an entire construction party putting up granite and cement around the box. Suddenly the box isn't a safe haven anymore and stuck inside it, I suddenly realise that to think that it was safe and was the same as how when you're a child having a whale swallow you wasn't dangerous; you could still live inside it. I have been swallowed by the whale and I have simply become a visitor in its' abdomen. I eat what it eats and sometimes I starve. I sleep and stare at all of the organs that slowly come undone as everything starts collapsing because the whale doesn't watch what it's eating. It swallows everything in it's wake until there is nothing left to consume and it sits at the bottom of the ocean regretting everything that it has consumed. My brain is the whale. I'm the human stuck inside a concrete cardboard box shut inside the whale's stomach with a glass ceiling that allows me to see everything, but I can touch nothing. My knees are cramped up, my limbs sore and I get my nourishment through the glass. A sudden motion spins me around as the whale along with the box starts sinking. Quicksand made out of disappointment and bad decisions wrap around the humongous beast, wrapping it within a warm cocoon of turmoil. Everything is related and everything hurts but the box is nailed shut with no way to get out. Every time my hands reach out to grasp at something, air brushes against my skin as violets grow out of my bruises. But a root falls, and the bruises are just purple tinged peachy skin that is healing from abuse. It was always just plain, disgusting, skin that I want to crawl out of. My brain is holding me a hostage in my own container as I crouch, unmoving taking blow after blow growing weaker every time until I start to become a part of the whale; until I don't exist anymore. It was always just the phantom whale driving my ship into the oblivion.
