Self-loathing manifesto

I sit. 

She sits across from my seat. 

A wave of fluorescent light washes over my body. 

I sit, rigidly, and she sits with her head down, and she breathes slowly, with certainty. Her eyes terrorize the cellphone screen upon which she fixes her stare. 

I stare, blankly, with a vacant hesitation, a deliberate dedication to await the right moment, a vacant moment devoid of any sympathy, wherein I would grab both ends of the thread of time and stretch it into infinity. And my life would henceforth coil around that thread. 

I would be.... 

I am, reduced to a dot, a dot that thus stretches into a line and coils around the thread of time, the thread of life, the thread of infinity. 

I am infinite. She sits across my seat, and I drown her in infinity with my gaze, and she drowns without knowing. Black water reaches up to her nostrils. Then the water turns red and reaches her eyes and her forehead and only her scalp remains above the surface. Each strand of her hair tears a thin thread through the water, each strand turns a different color, colors known and unknown to man, and I watch her drown in infinite kindness. And the receptionist calls my name. 

I stand and I walk and I faint and I fall. Then I get back on my feet. No need for a crutch. I walk again until I reach the doctor's office. I knock and wait and then the doctor opens the door and I go in and sit down. She sits across from my seat. Her eyes are on me. And in them I sense expectation, and I begin to speak for that is what she expects of me and my lips begin to move but I fail to recognize what I say and my lips, they move because that is what they are supposed to do and so they move and so the words come out and after ten minutes of talking about nothing the doctor nods and writes me a prescription. 

 Ciprelax they call it. 

 Pills. The idea is somehow comforting. 

And then she disappears and I disappear with her. 

Behind the counter the pharmacist stands with her head down. She asks me a question. A wave of fluorescent light washes over my body and her body and the bodies of all the ones who prance about the store. 

Cipralex is all I say. 

 And she says it will be ten minuets. 

She says it. States it. It is a fact. I sit and wait for another moment. I am covered from head to toe in a florescent veil. I wait and as I wait I think about my mother and my father and about nothing in particular. And when I think I find myself able, once again, to stretch time into eternity and as I do so I forget why I began to think in the first place. 

Cipralex. It is ready. 

They ask if I know how to use it and I say yes I do it's just a pill and I take the bottle and leave and take a pill and wash it down with water. 

I stand in the public washroom. 

Before me is a mirror. It is intact and so is my reflection. There I am, a fortunate being who was born into a fortunate family. And I smile at my fortunate existence but then tears insist to leave their resting place and they travel incessantly down my cheeks and I wonder why I cry. Then I look down and see a hole in my stomach. A wave of fluorescent light...... 

I am here, with you, for you, but who are you, where do you come from? I do not know you but I love you all the same. I take my Cipralex and I keep on rambling and I cry and I laugh and I sleep and I take a s**t and I keep hating myself for being so ungrateful and not being able to help it and in my head I apologize to my loved ones and the ones I have never met and I take my pills and I shed more tears and I blame myself for feeling the same feelings as all others and I blame myself for not having anything worthwhile to say. 

And when the month is over I go back for another prescription. 

Another refill. 

I sit. 

Across from my seat there is an empty space. I close my eyes and wait for my name to be called. I can no longer stretch the thread of time into infinity.