the rabbit hole

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            I find myself falling back down the rabbit hole again. The familiar colorful grey being a blur as I fall deeper and deeper. I find myself not dressing for the soccer game " again. This time, however, it hurts. An ache I can’t seem to shake, which sent me down this hole in the first-place.

            I write this in my Christian Beliefs class. The professor’s going on about how Jesus brought in the outcasts while offending the priests and their churches. I’m not listening. I’m deaf from the enraged screams followed by the calm voices saying, “You brought this upon yourself.” An angsty teen versus a wise elder, neither trying to solve the problem. Neither cares about the other. They’re just playing repeatedly, like a loop.

            The rabbit hole looks as if the blurring grey is now still, yet I feel as if I’m falling faster. I look down to see a tiny white speck millions of miles below. I close my eyes and await my exit.

            I write this in my Christian Beliefs class. The professor’s going on about the reenactment of Jesus being shunned in the town of which he would be crucified in, with a video pulled up. I not watching. I’m staring, out of body " face to face, at the girl two rows ahead and six seats to the right. She’s beautiful. The quiet romantic is obsessed. He is blinded by love. Saliva is leaking from the corner of his mouth in an endless stream, creating an endless waterfall. The self-esteem watches nervously, but masks it with disgust. “She is definitely not the one.” The quiet romantic, still enamored by her beauty, rebuttals, “That’s impossible! Look at her. She is bringing light unto this room with just the bat of an eyelash. Imagine what she could do if she smiled!” The self-esteem looked at her and remarks coldly with, “I don’t see it.” This went over and over, as it usually does, as if they were in some type of loop.

            I open my eyes to see how close I was from escaping this rabbit hole. I peeked down to see that the tiny white hole had grown a small amount… I think. I can’t seem to tell. I look at my hands. They are grey, just a little brighter than the grey illusion on the cylindered wall, most likely from the lack of light. I close my eyes again, to pass the time.

            I write this in my Christian Beliefs class. The professor’s going on about writing an exit slip about how Jesus’s prophets left him. I’m not doing it. My hand’s to busy writing. The future is upset. “why don’t you write the exit survey instead?” The creativity chuckles gayly, “because this makes me happy.” The future becomes enraged. “but if your grades keep slipping, you are going to be unemployed for the rest of your life!” the creativity looks up, feeling the shackles on his wrists and ankles, replies, “why can’t I be happy?” This starts the same argument as usual. It seems to always last forever, almost as if they are in a loop.

            My eyes open once again to see my progression of falling. It seems nearly identical to what it was the first time: only a tiny bit of progress. But even now I’m unsure if it’s progressing. I can’t take this anymore. I stop myself by jolting my arms and legs outwards. As I stop, the still greyness becomes actually still. I look around for clues on how to escape this madness. Tally marks are the only thing I see. They start from as high as I can see above me, to as far down as I can see below me. They cover every square inch of the entire hole. Each tally looks to be carved-in 3 inches deep, by not tools, but hands.  It’s as if someone used their nail and dug it in the greyness and dug out each tally, shaving by shaving, to each and every tally, and the tallies seem to have no end, almost like a loop.