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Spectre

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Written by   23
1 month ago
Topics: Writing, Story, Fiction

I don't feel myself, I hear the voices of those around me, I hear them talking and laughing in the midst of incoherent soliloquies, they are like distant calls from a world to which I no longer belong, from which I was suddenly and abruptly torn away.

I do not feel my body, it is like floating in a tactile void, there is no heat or cold, as if I were sleeping, but even in my dreams I am myself, here, I am not, I do not feel part of existence.

I have no eyes, but I can see the void, is not dark, is full of a dim light, but..., how do I know it's not dark?, if there is no darkness to differentiate the light. How do I know that what surrounds me exists?, if there is nobody around me, to help me differentiate what is.

How do I know that I am, that this is my consciousness, if there is no one to accompany me and make me be.

I feel the placidity of nothingness, of the lack of sensations, of the absence of existence. My 'I' vanishes, begins to lose itself, that absurd responsibility that was given to me without asking for it finally disappears, the responsibility to live.

Then, suddenly, my comfortable non-existence is filled with parasitic sensations, my opaque emptiness is illuminated with a ghostly green light, which, like a sphere of fire, grows in front of me; once again I feel the cold of my absurd existence growing from my hands which, like ghostly and blurred apparitions, I can see before the glare of discontinuous beams of light that emerge from the green fire.

Familiar aromas and sounds of a world I thought had been overcome at times fill my newly conscious head. Then I realize the terrifying reality of being again, of the despicable obligation to live.

The intense light from the ceiling of my room, now clearly distinguishable; the intense smell of jasmine growing around the building; the noise of others laughing and talking loudly and jovially in their rooms; the taste of blood in my mouth and the painful sensation of being myself again, announce my failure, testify that my new attempt to free myself from the condemnation of living has failed.

Even my hand holds the glass with which I cut my jugular, I sit up and watch the crimson stain spread over my mattress and drop the piece of glass that I once believed would be the solution to the curse of my existence. Again the nanobots have returned me from the placidity of the void, brought me back from the edge of death.

Soon the wardens will be here, to ensure that I have not died, that I have not been able to escape my sentence, that I have not been able to escape the prison that has become my life.

Again counselors, psychiatrists and psychologists will try to convince me that there are reasons to keep me here, that my sentence will end and I will regain my freedom. That my troubled mind can be fixed and I will be free to go wherever I want, that this confinement will end.

But they do not understand that it is not these walls that deprive me of being free; even outside of them, I would still be a prisoner of my own existence, I would still be imprisoned for my life, for a life whose duration I stopped counting when it exceeded three figures, I would still be condemned, for having lost the right to be able to die.

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Avatar for amart29
Written by   23
1 month ago
Topics: Writing, Story, Fiction
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