It’s visible, crystal clear, intangible but you can feel it.
Clocks are ticking slowly, almost as slow as a slug carrying a briefcase. There is no single earthly entities that can even know where do you stand now. Shrouded in darkness, veiled by a thick cloth colored black–black as the night. You appear as a normal human, but inside your private fantasy, you tried to appear as humane as possible, but no luck.
I can hear the wind from the aircon singing its deathly tune, supporting the notion of darkness and despair. The air itself doesn’t feel friendly; all I could feel is a forced retraction and absorption from and to my lungs.
People are walking back and forth, sound of door creaking and banging, as if these people orchestrated it to make the atmosphere lighter. But no, all of them are just zombies with priorities with many on their minds running, why would they even think about damn music?
Laughs are heard over the door, seeping through the joints of it and the small gap between it and the wood frame. Their laughs are shockingly similar, but I know best it is not a sincere laugh.
All of those things amalgamate, forming a mixture I would call a “loneliness” solution. Drink it, stress will be nothing but your best friend.
There might be a chance someone put that mixture to my daily beverage–I usually drink a shot of coffee with a milk poured, or a milk alone. Recalling the days I’ve been here, there must be one day someone poured the solution on my drink. 100% sure.
That could be the answer to the question of why is my room felt so hollow. If I close my eyes right at the place, I can probably create a perfect mental image of unknown creepy creatures effortlessly, no disturbance, only some creaking sound and ghastly aircon sound. What a perfect combination of creating such imagination.
I also don’t know if there’s any kind of ghost that blocks people from calling and talking to me without any sort of strings attached. If I recall it correctly, there is a kind of ghost that sit upon people, the one in Thailand version of Shutter, where in the end the ghost sit on the protagonist.
Is it real? Cause if it is, then it could be a strong contender as a culprit that make me look haughty and blocks people from calling or talking to me sincerely. But I gotta convey my thanks, too. It makes me selectively looking at someone with true will. Thanks, man.
The top button of my iPhone becomes the number 1 thing that is overly-abused by me. Almost every minute I pressed it–sometimes violently–just to check if there’s a notification or anything. “Nope, sir” I almost sure that’s the word he always said in silent to me.
This just came out of blue, though. I don’t wanna sound whiny. But I think this is the best self-healing mechanism.
Sorry for a such irrelevant post.