a Hole in my Life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

An indescripable mess of a caption of a person's life. Enjoy the ride, it's a long way down.

Unedited, please feel free to criticise, correct or comment, else share your thoughts about what you think :)

a Hole in my Life

Spiralling down a never-ending black chasm, desperately trying to grab onto the walls around me, desperately trying to stop the spinning, but nothing helps. Nothing stops.
My palms are bleeding, my knees too. My head is throbbing, hammering, like there’s something inside there, trying to break out. Just like me, out of the tiny little world I now I call hell.
Everything’s so claustrophobic… I can feel the walls closing in around me as I fall. The wind rushing past my ears, but it’s warm, everything’s stale, repugnantly rotting away on the backside of my brain. I can’t breathe. I can’t see.
I reach out my arms again, trying to catch a-hold of something, anything, a single thread of hope, anything that will stop me falling or spinning. Knuckles scraping against the rough surface around me. I’m crying, and screaming, my throat is completely shredded. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know anything.

And at the same time there’s an odd sense of satisfaction. No, not quite satisfaction, detachment. Nothing’s quite real anymore, not the walls, not the pain, not the tears or the wind. It’s numb, disconnected. The scrape of the wall is like the touch of streaming water. The pain is a dull tickling, almost painful, but not unpleasantly so.
Freedom, too, I suppose. Freedom from obligation. There’s nothing in the hole, nothing but darkness. There’s no expectation. No society. No order. No motivation. No need for motivation. No energy. No sleep. No dreams. No emotions. No reactions. No rules. No space. No physical being. No morale. No correct order of things. No logic or pattern. No face. No value. No judgement…

And most tellingly; No Self. Who am I? One might wonder, except the question rarely arises.
In the darkness of the wind rushing past me, there are images of the things I can’t see, but remember. Images of the thousand selves that have occupied my bodies, like tenants, moving in and changing things about, refurbishing, repainting, then moving out and leaving a little of their work behind for the next tenant to build on or change. Who are these people? Is a question more frequently asked. Where do they come from? Why do they change so much? Why don’t they stay? Why doesn’t anyone just bloody buy the house and move in?

But honestly, what’s the difference between the tenants anyway? Humans are all the same, re-organize them as you may, it’s the same rooms, the same house, the same basic layout. I know who I am, what I make of that is my own business. But as this developing self in a world of infinite possibilities, of so many possible paths, roads, byways, sidewalks and motorways, how did I end up falling down this one-way hole, with no control over the destination?

And all the time I think this, my knuckles are against the wall. I can feel the pain spreading, flesh being ripped apart layer by layer, leaving a trail of blood on the wall, my blood, my mark. But is it a good mark? Not exactly.
How do I even know it’s there?
And at that point I realise the real problem, and the pain becomes unbearable, and I take my hand away from the wall and watch the approaching light at the bottom of the hole, the end of the hole, as it speeds closer and closer to me.
The problem was this; I had my eyes closed the whole time.


Submitted: November 09, 2014

© Copyright 2021 M T Forre. All rights reserved.

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