16.05.14: Flash Fiction


Shithole: a very unpleasant place, especially one that is very dirty or poor (Cambridge Dictionary)

Dear Dumb Diary,

Sometimes there are feelings of being trapped and sometimes I just don’t know what the fuck to do, this emptiness, this longing, this exceptional anger, this inexcusable rage, the tumult of emotions and also the lack thereof, that threatens to bubble over, to take over, to take me to some other plane of existence.

This mind-numbing emptiness; constant tiredness, forcing me out of thinking and into a world where one can only think about non-thinking, about a place where this raging emptiness can just drive around freely until it runs out of steam, sets itself down a path of no return, just escapes, escapes so clearly until there is nothing left, and while there is still the emptiness, it is shortened somehow, circuited so that it can hide away in a hidey-hole and spend time with all its friends and leaving time to actually think instead of the fake-think mind numbing responses to everything; but it feels rational.

It refuses to escape, even when it wants to run away and leave me to focus, instead of the constant numbness, there are not many words to describe it unless one had the energy to look up the synonyms and to think about other meanings, but it is just sapped away until there is nothing left, nothing left I want to feel, and it just stays there, because it belongs in me.

It wants to stay there, because this is its home, this place in my mind where death touches and life runs from; nobody escapes from here unscathed. You can pretend all you like that everything is fine, and the wounds are invisible, just like everything else you do, invisible to my soul, until it goes scratch, scratch, since the wounds were never really gone, merely on a short holiday away, and while you think everything is completely fine, it’s a complete lie, it really is, and I’m just lying to myself if you think all is fine and the wound can hide away untouched, as if I were just going to sleep.

With my little playmate, it’s like attempting to sleep, but lying there, just thinking, thinking, about what ifs and what nots and how whos and the constant simplistic complexity of Seussian thought patterns that leave me wondering, and I just can’t stop because I don’t want to stop (but I want to) and I can’t stop (but I really could) and I want to scream but my voice isn’t there and the voice wants me to shout out as loud as I can until there is no screaming left to do, but the others…oh, the others, the rip-roaring screams struggling to break out of my head, but we plead with them not to escape, because I don’t want to hurt the others, I don’t want to be afraid, I want to be just like everyone else, but I’m really not (but am I?) because everyone is all the same and I’m just like everyone else but I want to get out, out, away from all of this, and no, not in that way.

Heavy breathing escapes the lips, nothing else, no screaming, even though the screaming in my thoughts echoes down the hallway, down the damn hallways of my soul; those never-ending ones where the voices try to meet up with each other to find some semblance of the truth, but the clouds are everywhere, taking up all the space, and they can never find each other. Months after months after months pass and it is all still the same and nothing can escape, even if you see it all happening and watch it all with bated breath because you want it all to happen, that final fated day where the fog fades away and the thoughts connect with each other and the shithole no longer remains the shithole; it is connected and everything works and sleep can come easily without the constant thinking, thinking will it be alright? (but what if it isn’t?) and the ridiculous numbness that always wants to take over but can’t take over if we meet up with each other and figure out what is wrong.

But it is all an illusion, isn’t it?



Note: I’ve still got my injured shoulder, and recently got COVID after avoiding it for the better part of three years. Since my brain’s a foggy mess, “enjoy” this flash fiction instead of this month’s scheduled book review/musings.

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