I don't know what to say. It's an odd thing, being me. Now, you probably don't know what that is exactly like, (unless....could I be like John Malkovich in that movie, Being John Malkovich, with some kind of portal that allows people to experience the 'thrill' of being me....I put the word 'thrill' in quotation marks to assert some level of dubiousness....I have, after all, spent at least half an hour today just staring at the ceiling...not drunk, or on drugs, or anything like that, though, maybe i should be....but this aside is getting way ahead of itself, and is also running on way too long, so I'm going to close the parentheses now) so, let me give you a close approximation by giving you some ingredients. Cliché, I know, but that is the way of things. First, take a big ol' bag of....actually, I'm not going to do that, let me tell you something, two things, as a matter of fact.
Firstly, I couldn't leave the house the other day. Secondly, it was the first time that this has been the case in a good, seven, eight years. See, physically, I'm well and capable, I have no injuries, no physical maladies, no deformities, no injuries or the like. There was no physical obstruction, either. That is, there was nothing blocking the doors or windows, no bomb, or bomb warning, in the street, no barricades to stop the flesh eating zombie hordes from busting in and devouring me and mine and spreading the plague even further. No, it was a regular sunny day, the afternoon actually, a little after half six, and I wanted to go to the shops. I wanted some Pepsi. Pepsi Max to be specific (the 'X' makes it sound cool). I couldn't leave the house. I stood there, coat-jacket in hand, and I couldn't move. I was literally petrified. Panic attacks are not new to me, they're something I've dealt with my entire life. The constriction in the chest, the hollowness in the head, the rawness of the signals coming from the eyeballs, the feeling as though the room is suddenly much smaller than it was....I read somewhere that they're actually a flaw in the fight or flight response system, that it's the brain fucking up and recognising a source of discomfort, or an event, or whatever, as being eminently more dangerous than it is, and going full hog, jacking up the adrenal glands, cutting out all extraneous information but what's directly in front and surrounding areas, and just generally, you know, preparing for a fight, or a flight. Of course, the problem is, whilst we humans are animals, we're also so cognizant, so very, very self-aware, and so that primal response designed as a emergency button has us dumb chimps looking at the flashing buttons, listening to the wailing sirens, the klaxons, and asking 'why' and not moving.
Don't worry, it only lasted ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and then I was able to move again and I got my pepsi (max), and there was much rejoicing throughout the land, huzzah! However, the panic attack is not the actually bad thing. See, those hit you over the head with their arrival. There's no subtleness to one, it's BAM! IN YOUR FUCKING FACE! The real problem is the other thing, the thing I mentioned in parentheses at the start. Staring at the ceiling. I've been doing a pretty indecent amount of that lately. Staring at the ceiling. Doing nothing, in other words. And it's not that I don't have things to do, I do. I've not yet technically finished university (I still have one assignment to go...and if I'm being honest, there's probably going to be a deferral on one module....I may go into the reasons, the whys and wherefores on that one, but it won't be here, save that for another day) and there is, of course, the issue of post-grad study/employment, and then there's other more frivolous stuff, like video games and books (and boy, oh boy, should you see my shrine to consumerism, it's fab!), let it never be said that I do not have activities to do. In fact, I would never say it. Still, I lay on my bed, and I stare at the ceiling, and I do nothing. Actually, that's a lie. I think. Of course I do. Horrible, spiteful thoughts. No, that's not quite the right word, spite is something one inflicts on others, I don't know what it is, what I do to myself. It's late as I write this, it's something I have to write though, even though I can't quite think of the right words, I need to get out something at least approximate to them. I think about people. I'm lonely. Really, really, fucking lonely. Yet, I can't do shit about it. All I can do is sit in my room, and look at the ceiling. It's a nice ceiling, off-white, not quite cream, though maybe that's just the lighting, and the cobwebs festooning the thing making it look that way. Talk to them. There's a few cracks in the paint too, where the stresses of time, or maybe water, gods, I hope it's not water, are edging their way in. Organise something, a day out maybe? Is that a spider crawling along there? I don't think it is, I think it's just a shadow or something, see, where the cobweb is moving, it's a shadow. They'll say no. Why do they call it a ceiling anyway? Like, where that word come from. I mean, France, obviously, with the way that sounds it can't be anything other than from the Romantic languages. Why didn't you ask her? I wonder why that bit of skirting is missing? It exists to demarcate the boundary between wall and ceiling, so without it, where, in that particular section does the wall begin and the ceiling end there?
Day in, day out. Punctuated by.....see, I don't know what's the interruption in my life anymore. Is it the feeling of drawn out, apathetic malaise that is the norm and the everyday activities, reading, exercising, video-games, etc. that are the interruptions, or is it vice versa. I...think I'm done for now. This isn't helping nearly as much as I thought it would, which was already a pretty low estimate, in fact, it just made me realise how bereft I am of....people....fuck it, I'm out.