Unreality. Debilitating unreality
The ground shifts from under my feet, though it's a not moving an inch. Im not moving an inch. The walls pulse and sway and yet the room stays the same size. The room, my vision, the world is skewed, although not changing at all.
This is not a high. This is, rather, the opposite-- my low point, my rock bottom. It takes the form of me. It becomes me, lying on on the floor as I stare at my hands. The hands I can't recognise as my own while reality weaves its way in between my fingers and becomes impossible to gasp.
I'm not here.
My feelings feel shallow, if they're even real at all. This feeling of unreality and terror becomes trapped in the head I can not register as my own, forbidding me to scream or cry or move at all. My pulse races through the veins I cannot comprehend as existant.
And slowly but surely, as my body becomes a concept more so than flesh, and the walls continue to move, and a skewed, taunting concept of reality wraps around my neck and chokes me silently, I close my eyes, terrified of opening them again.
Unreality rips my mind out of my body as it chokes the life out of me.
YOU ARE READING
Scrapbook
General FictionThis is most likely going to be a small series of shorter stories and scraps of writing or poetry or vignettes for when I can't focus on bigger projects. Sort of like a scrapbook, but for writing instead of pictures This also means that most of the...
