“Bottom”

Nausea takes hold of you every day: riding on the trolleybus or sitting in the bathroom stall, pouring boiling water on yourself to awaken your senses. It never leaves you, but instead presses on your brain with a heavy vice, making you vomit at every movement and thought. Your own existence does not bother you: you have resigned yourself to your own death and decomposition. Every movement is given with great difficulty, your head lives separately from your body. In your dockets after you commit suicide, it will be written only: died of your own thoughts.
Freedom for a human being equals degradation, total decomposition. At least that's what I thought before Nausea came to me. I'd give anything to be free again from thoughts that are like knives, killing me from the inside.
Alcohol's a great thing. When I got drunk, I felt nothing but emptiness in my rotten body.
I could hear the doves singing and it took me back to my childhood, where I was unencumbered by anything and anyone. I had my third cup of coffee, my body thinks it will save me from suffering. It's funny.
I have to go to the factory again, where I always think of one thing: how to loop the chandelier and me with it.
My trolleybus arrives at the stop. I'm forced back into the routine.

Reviews

[type_antique]

It's one of my little sketches that popped into my head recently.