I glance out of the window as I pace by it, hoping for a change in scenery. Nothing. Nothing is different. I stop walking and squint through the glass, straining my eyes as if that will help anything, but it doesn't. The sky is still an over-bearing, fake-looking shade of blue. The buildings in the distance appear to be painted onto the blue canvas, with thick, messy strokes.
It doesn't look alive. The colors are bright and blinding, yet somehow faded and dull. Everything tastes like yellow and light green, the only smell is a lingering neon-orange. When I tell my therapist that I can't touch a pen without neon-orange flashing through my head, he squints at me then quickly says that it's just a mental illness, speaking as though he will catch whatever I have if he lingers on the subject for too long.
I press my hand up to the glass and step closer, so that when I breathe patches of fog appear.
De-per-son-il-i-za-tion.
An illness. A mental illness. A mental illness meant to explain why I can't walk down a street without feeling like my soul is detached from my body.
I grit my teeth and push away, walking across the room again. When I reach the opposite wall I turn on my heel and glare at the view. Though I can't see it as clearly from here, I can still tell that it doesn't look right. The sun is too bright, colors too noticeable, shapes and objects too distorted. Like a hallucination.
My breaths get quicker.
Why is it so much worse than before?
It's like reality isn't real. Like if I opened that window and stuck my hand outside, I would be touching a painting made by an artist who forgot what "realistic" was supposed to look like.
Or feel like. Because it doesn't feel like this. It feels like the color rain makes when it connects with pavement; a deep resonating green with streaks of navy blue. Like the smell of the taste of apples; crisp and forgiving.
Not like what it is now. The taste of dried grass when you step on it, or how it feels to get into a car on a summer afternoon.
My throat closes up, and my lungs spasm as they try to take in more air, causing me to lean against the table.
I can't lose it. Not right now. Not when I can't even tell if that door next to me is a poster or a piece of wood. But I can't help it. My knees crumble beneath me, like the sheet of paper used to hold my surroundings.
Nothing is real.
And I'm drowning.
Sinking in honey as my world falls apart. While I inhale for what seems like the last time, I glance at the window before me, hoping to see something that's closer to reality, to hit the ground and believe that it will be there to catch me.
But I exhale for what seems to be the last time and taste of dried grass meets my eyes, forcing me to fade from a place that is now 2-D.
hey hey it's alex, the writer of these things. thanks for reading, even though only 523 words made this. and I'm sorry if the sentences seem weird, but read them how the sentences are spaced/paced, other wise it'll sound awkward as hell lol. have a lovely day :)
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