ekobor
Pressed for time, pressed for space, pressed up against everyone and everything. The world is spiraling around you, trying to consume you, take your soul, take your life. Telling you to take your life. Die and be consumed, trapped in this box, trapped and pushed in from all sides. Compressed until you no longer recognise who or what you once were. Losing all sense of everything, leaving the normal for the better, the better for the worse.
in and out goes the thread of time, weaving here and there to patch over the holes we wear in ourselves. the hurt and the anguish that we use to erode ourselves, mended as one mends a pair of jeans. How apt it is that the things we use the most are the ones most suited to be called after ourselves.
Looking around, nothing was where I thought it should be. Had’t I just lain my head to the pillow? I had heard my alarm, that much I knew. But I was still hearing it. Where is it? Is that it? The noise seems to be coming from it. A bird? No, it’s metal. A robot then. Where /am/ I? This bed is not mine, it is made of some metal I've never seen. Oh, I've gotten up and it is disappearing? Why did it do that? Sensors? There? In the wall? If I press, will it come back?