It's _ : _ pm here, and I feel the fallacy of our existence... -S.P
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00:00 AM/PM
Tick tock its twelve, wallowing in a stream of consciousness my day begins. The roulette of popping pills and chemicals hadn’t come yet so I am thus allowed to feel, feel pain in all its raw glory. Echoes of scuttling shoes hurriedly meandering their way through the now busy hallways could be heard from inside my enclosure. Whom do those shoes belong to you might ask, they belong to society and rotting inside their enclosures are societies rejections. The thin veil of pale transparency that is my skin pulsated, diluted green and blue veins throbbed earning for their dose of reality to be injected into them. Good morning Ms.Winter, oh how I’ve missed you...
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Repeated : Consciousness AM/PM
One, the number of lives we have. Yet that one life is so cruel and long for such a small insignificant number. ‘Happiness’ is such a flimsy construction, like a photographic film strip, made to keep order by those who give the ‘orders’. So why can’t I pretend… pretend to wear the mask for the people who care about me. They cared enough to seek this help for me or was it just fear. Their fear has always abused me to the point where I have found refuge in my isolation.
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Silver : Injections AM/PM
Two, two nurses opened the door which filtered in piercing bright light into the room. Metal clanking against the surface of the polished floor interrupted my train of thought as they assembled their toys, very precious toys. Toys to them, poison to me. A poison I have grown immune to, that is what they are used for aren’t they? To vaccinate me against the illness that I am. The welcoming sensation of a cold blade against my skin tingles throughout my body as the tip of the needle dipped into my flesh. Coursing through my sensitive veins the rush of blood meets the poison like predators to their prey, feeding their wants. I lost myself in the moment and was awoken to the demanding voices of those nurses.
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Rhetorical : Irony AM/PM
Three, ‘count to three’ they told me to see if I was still conscious, not that they cared. No one did. The paraphernalia of our government haunts me. We are taught to pay homage to our country, but would my fellow patriots pay homage to me once I’m gone? Would they take responsibility for their actions? The most real homage we can pay to truth, is to make use of it. In a sense that’s what these entries are, my truth. My time here should be temporary but it will always be engraved in my memory permanently.
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Runaway : Path AM/PM
Four to six, four walls and two escape routes. My ‘escape routes’ are more commonly referred to as a door and window. Drained of colour, and life, the rooms interior favours a blank white canvas with all its belongings clean, tidy and correctly placed. This is what I should have been; a normal person whom can contribute to our society and be shaped by it. But I am not, I will never be. Obsolescence is their definition of me and now it’s mine too. Five, traditional guns carry five bullets is what my father engrained in me, life seems like a drawn out game of Russian roulette with me waiting for that mesmerising bullet to leave its home and find one in myself.
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Sinner : Saviour AM/PM
Seven, the seven deadly sins. This place could be the eighth or better yet maybe I could be the lucky eighth. Sins, solace, sacrifice, do any of these really exist? Free will, a mere social construct made as a coping mechanism when it finally daunts on you that there is no such thing. Life as I have known it is pre-determined and pre-existent so wake up Sylvia, the life we live isn’t special.
I have lived in this mausoleum of mine day in and day out. Does my choice of wording do true justice to my surroundings? Well there could be beauty in this mausoleum of mine; the beauty of depression, of sorrow or maybe the beauty of grief. Intricate claw marks decorate these walls, a remembrance of me once I’m gone. I laid my sunken check against the chilling surface of the floor relishing the coolness radiating through my insides. Yet even when I sought relief, I could still feel myself drown in the thick veiled air of iodoform.
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Her : Hue AM/PM
Eight, eight colours in my rainbow. Now really there are only seven but one tone that has spoken volumes to me is grey. The grey hue of my uniform matched my skin tone, how lovely of them to remember. Colours fit together like pieces of a puzzle or cliques in society, some mix well and others are better left separated. Unfortunately, some colours are forgotten, falsely interpreted or fail to be enough, such as grey. Nothing is black or white, right or wrong but rather there are infinite possibilities to be that ‘in-between’. I am that greyscale both to myself and to others which can be frightening because its different and people like that, like me, are faced with being trapped in a constant state of learned helplessness.
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Other : Lives AM/PM
Nine, cats have nine lives. The warden mistress usually takes her immaculately groomed cat for walks along the narrow corridors filled with docile heavily sedated patients so that it can have contact with other humans I suppose. Would it be correct of me to refer to the feline as an ‘it’, after all it isn’t human. Being human in this lifetime seems like a waste of existence; we put humanity on this pedestal when really it doesn’t exist but what does is hypocrisy. The hypocrisy of people who dare to say they have humanity in them when I am rotting in confinement because of their choices. Choice also is an opportunity for change, but will humans really change? No. Egotistical sadists don’t change overnight and never will.
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My : Limbo AM/PM
This is me, I identify with Ten-Eleven. Those two numbers so close yet so far from finishing the cycle. I am not living but desperately trying to survive in a world of profound nothingness. Thank you, this place has given me the willpower I needed for the end of my story.
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The : End AM/PM
Tick Tock its Twelve, the clock dial comes to an end. Will I wake up again?
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