It's interesting how once your life changes for the worst, it's impossible to remember what your life was like before. Sure, I remember that I used to have no problem getting up for school in the morning and having the ability to do everyday, normal things. But it feels so distant, almost like some erratic dream I once had, or a faraway memory solely reliable on an ancient home video.
My life feels like a horrendous cycle of nothingness, as in a similar way to the movie "Groundhog Day". Every morning I wake up, surrendering to the perpetual arousing that one cannot control, very early in the day. I slowly get dressed and begin my quest to find the daily paper, which I habitually read every day with my breakfast. Funnily enough, it sometimes seems (and may possibly be fact) that mornings are the most painless time of the day. However, it is common that following breakfast, the uninvited cloud that one day interjected into my life without warning evolves into a darker shade of grey. And so begins the downhill spiral of my day; from useless thoughts to obnoxious quarrels.
I recently finished reading the book "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath, and although I didn't really enjoy the story I can clearly relate to how the main character, Esther, feels. Referring to the title of the book, I can strongly identify with Esther's feelings of being stuck in a bell jar with no way to escape, all the while having the luxury of oxygen gradually slipping through her fingers. Initially I was aware that there was a long way to drop, but I didn't realise that the ditch was this deep. The unnerving fact is that even though I feel I'm at a great depth, it appears I'm continuing to fall further.
I feel like I'm screaming for someone to hear me, but the sound is withheld within my chest. I feel like I'm running on a treadmill in a room with photographs on the walls, declaring all that I'm falling short of. All the while I'm clinging on to the final particles of energy I have left, with very little confidence. I feel like I'm falling... fast.
