Your eyes are open and you stand awake. Lucid. Yet the fragments of your nightmares blind your vision and consume you whole.
How do you focus? How do you concentrate?
The room is small. A desk and three chairs. A bed rests next to a window or a wall. You remember few details. You sit infront of her, always the left chair... and you talk to her impassive face that neither comforts you nor disturbs you. You welcome the stoicity. Somehow that makes it easier.
The room outside is bright and rows of chairs are lined by the wall. One chair has a sign that says "Don't sit on me" with a sad face doodled underneath it. You stare at it for longer than you should.
Children's artwork are displayed on a board. Faceless women sit behind a large counter and they avoid your eyes. Perhaps they know. Do you care? No. Not really. Hell with what people think.
She beckons for you to start so you indulge her. Drawl on and on about September and the hells you walk through every year to get past this cursed month. She interrupts you often today. Tells you things you don't want to hear. Perhaps she's right but you don't want to accept it. Perhaps she's wrong and you are right. Perhaps you do deserve it all. Who the fuck knows? Repentance has been ignored in every shape and form it could possibly be ignored in.
You drone on about minute corpses and obsidion coils with livid scarlet slits. How you are paralysed in sleep when those thick wet coils slither and slap against you like a lover. How terrified you lie when it hisses loudly in your ear. How it haunts you when the corpses open their eyes and out slither thin strands of serpents that entangle themselves around lifeless limbs and feast while you watch. How those nightmares torture you while you stand awake with flashes that interrupt your vision in translucent layers.
She gives you a form, tells you to fill it out. For next week, she says. Something about mindfulness apps and yoga and replacing thoughts or images or some shit or the other. Your head is swimming with detached thoughts. Your brain feels slushy. Slushy. Slushy is a funny word. Does it mean what you think it means? Strange. No. Sluggish. Yes. That is the word. What does slushy even mean?
You walk home in a daze again. The first time you almost walked into a car. Your eyes focus on the puddles again. Reflected blinking neon lights. Nothing soothes you today, though. You come home and your room is a prison and you sit on the floor, immobile.
She leaves you alone today. You don't really care anymore. You just sit here, mulling over exit strategies in your head. There is nothing and no one. Only the merry-go-around of chaos you are consumed by and the one question that plagues you every minute of every damned day.
What IS the point of it all?
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