Writing

How it feels:

Like you are standing in the middle of a beautiful sunny photo and you reach up and put your fist through it - it’s only a Truman Show prop - the wound to the false narrative reveals only a drab, smooth, beige wall behind. It is a smooth that is otherworldly - undulating in a way that leaves you without understanding. It seems finite and endless at the same time. You tear at the paper to get a better vantage point - abandoning the idea that the sun ever shined upon you for real. As you tear at the paper, it falls away like petals plummeting to earth in a hurricane. The beige is infinite and moving. It is a box, but somehow - not. There are no windows and an unknown lifeless light source.  Only a concrete, cold floor below bare feet - littered with scraps of paper that are your memories, and a few shards of glass that are sharp words no longer rescindable. There is no comfort... A tiny door is visible, blinking in and out of focus - reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. There is no pill to shrink you enough to escape.  This room is despair.  This room is what it feels like to lose your father.