today i still felt detached, each corridor and door and wall seemed alien, albeit their being in the most normal, most calming of all shades, variations of humble beige: some darker, as if dabbed with instant tanner, others lighter, looking pale and still and frozen, devoid of both soul and life.
this morning i forgot to bring my glasses, but in all the blur the alienness of the place did not seem to falter, it even grew stronger instead, as if soaking up my capability to clearly distinguish lines and colours. everyone looked like a stranger, in fact all of them were, but i grew more uncomfortable this afternoon. i did not know what had happened, felt like, everybody said everything too fast, i was left behind, couldn't hear a thing or say a thing, i was abysmally silenced by the inadequacy of my sight and hearing, but i knew it was more than that
i had this phase going on regularly like a menstrual cycle, a phase during which i could not fully communicate my ideas and responses to any external force. i acknowledge that i'm most helpless at such time, feeble and vulnerable, sitting fickle on my old creaking chair, haystack spreading its tails and hair on the floor beneath, wanting to plunge my body into the sadness of an undecided depth
if sylvia plath was really inadequate, i should've shoved my whole body into a giant oven when i was an infant
that way i would get to choose death, not that it signifies courage or desolation or helplessness, self chosen death is just one form of relative liberation. but relative shouldn't mean that it's inferior to the absolute, because such relativity requires you to look from a certain angle, which most people fail to do, which desires more effort to comprehend than looking at black-and-white absoluteness you can't really argue over
acquiring your inadequacy is frustrating, let alone being aware of it