A Day in the Life (of a headless man)

Calling

The relentless sun rests in its cradle. I sit haphazardly, with my legs stretched out. I am surrounded by a blinding white, the placid face of eternal waiting, waiting for something to happen. In my hand I have a bag of chips (Lays, to be exact) which I have bought, absentminded, from the drug store. Worst part -or maybe the best part- is that I do not recall buying it. I sit, halfheartedly, with my head in the clouds and my heart buried deep beneath the ground. My eyes are leveled, fixed on the receptionist that sits behind her computer. Her head is down, and from my chair I can only make out the shape of her scalp, a fact that attests to the degree of concentration she seems to be exercising over her task. Once in a while her keyboard clicks away. Away and away it goes. What goes? My mind is still in the clouds. But where exactly are the clouds? What if the clouds drift apart and my mind, my thoughts, are exposed to....to whom? Maybe I should ask the receptionist. Better yet, maybe I should walk up and ask her if she wants to take off her clothes and f**k me on the counter. But...no, that thought is too earthly, and my mind is in the clouds, and my heart is under the earth's crust, yet my gaze hovers, always, just a bit above the surface, alone.
I sit still, still waiting, waves of florescent light washing over my body and her body. Against the white background her figure seems out of place, out of context, as if she is the sole obstacle that stands in the way of time itself. I wait comfortably at first until she appears. There she is, a wall, but one I do not want to surmount. Mount her I will on the counter top, and I will work and work until my skin begins to weep. Tears of salt cling to me as I push myself inside her. This is music. There is a rhythm that I have yet to master. It goes:
onetwothreefour, pause. onetwothreefour, pause. onetwothreefour...
"Mr. G-----, the doctor will see you now. Right this way please."

Fly in a jar

Down the winding corridors we go. I follow and she leads, down and down the labyrinth of white walls, brightly lit hallways covered in a fluorescent veil. Repetition, and then the floor turns into a conveyer belt. Wherever I go now is out of my control - I merely follow the receptionist with the nice a*s who seems to be defying the current. Her gait speaks of a cruel indifference toward my existence, an eagerness to get as soon as possible to the doctor's office so that she can go back to her desk and bend her head once again over whatever task she has been taking an interest in.
"There you go Mr. M----. You can just wait here, the doctor will be with you shortly".
I sit. She leaves.
In the room there is a window to my left. I see the sun has left its zenith. Like an eye that seems to follow my every move.
I sit. She leaves. And when she leaves I let my gaze linger for a few seconds on her a*s, and I imagine what it would be like to rip off her panties and feel her c**t.
She leaves and the door closes behind her.
The sun is relentless and restless, and I wonder if I can reach its cradle and lull it to sleep. My mind is lost amidst superfluous thoughts when the doctor opens the door. A woman in her fifties. She wears a lab coat and walks in with a brisk pace. She brings with her a clean smell, the aura of hand sanitizer and hospital gowns, if gowns did emit a scent at all. She sits. I look into her eyes. We talk of my mental state. All the while my lips move of their own accord. "What happened to my bag of chips", I think to myself. And then other thoughts emerge: "I wish I could talk to the receptionist. I would give anything just to look at her face. Just one quick look would be enough! Man, I wonder what she is doing right now." But the woman before me is a doctor and not a mindreader. So I allow my lips complete freedom, and I soon begin to feel them forming their own pulse. I am no longer in control of the words I say, yet they are the right words anyone would say in front of a doctor whose sole concern seems to be your wellbeing, albeit for only fifteen minutes. Then you shake hands and thank the doctor and they often forget about you, for they only have a limited amount of sympathy that they must distribute equally amongst their patients. Once in awhile, however, before you partake in social conventions, they break the routine and ask a question that a mother would ask her child out of obligation and compassion. And thus the doctor asks me, "My boy, would you say that you are now happier than you were six months ago?"

Escape

I stand. She stands before me. Our eyes meet halfway. My lips no longer posses a pulse. I am now back in control of what I say and what I do, yet I haven't the slightest clue as to what to say or what to do. Repetition is no longer a solution. Repetition is what provided me a escape from having to answer such questions to begin with. So now I ask myself, what does it mean when someone says "are you okay?" What does it mean to be okay? What does it mean to be happy or to feel good?
Maybe the receptionist knows. I close my eyes (I think?) and envision her giving me a blowjob underneath the dinner table, in the presence of other people who are also dinning with us, where the slightest twitch of my facial muscles would give away our act of mischief. Yet I am able to engage in conversations and control myself as the girl proclaims dominance over me, looking up into my eyes while she is on her knees, batting her long eyelashes - a secret signal that tells me I am allowed to cum on her face.
When I finally finish, she winks and crawls back onto the chair beside me, settling down as if nothing has happened. She continues to eat, her face covered in my semen.

To the sanctuary

I stand still. The doctor seems to be getting tired. She checks her watch and asks if I am doing okay. This time I can sense it in her tone that she expects a quick answer. I simply smile and nod and when we both say goodbye I go to the bathroom and cry. I look into the mirror and see two eyes staring back at me. I know those eyes too well. Sometimes a bleeding spider weaves its web in there, and its blood seeps into my veins and makes my eyes look red.
In the bathroom there are no windows, so I cannot tell if the sun has seen me cry.
I stand instead under the canopy of fluorescent lights.
I have lost track of my head and my heart, thus in a sudden moment where impulse takes control of body and thought, I decide to storm out the room and ask the receptionist if she has seen my heart, my head, or if she could at least help me hunt them down.
There she sits, this time staring at the computer screen before her, with an expression that says, "I think I ought to be bored of concentrating by now." Yet when I see her eyes, jet black, I begin to cry once again, and I open my mouth to ask her a question, but my tongue wraps itself like a snake around my throat, and I am thus unable to talk to the girl who seems to know all the answers. I turn away in shame with my tongue wrapped around my throat. I still cannot find my head, but I do know that it is no longer in the clouds. The only thing I see now when I look to the sky is the sun that watches me, relentless, and I imagine what it would be like if the sun was merely a doorway to another world where there was no sky nor ground, just a surface whereupon I could stand with a lover in front of me, where I expected nothing of her and she expected nothing of me, and we would touch and kiss and caress and dance and clasp each other's arms, and she could put her head on my shoulder and whisper, "hey, it's okay, you don't have to worry about moving; overcoming challenges, beating your highest scores, searching for happiness, becoming a better writer, finishing your term papers, all those things are pointless here. Just stand still, like this, forever, for here time has no meaning, and everything, even our love, stretches into infinity."

Outside the jar

I leave the clinic and stand at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn green. I no longer see the sun. Beside me there is a girl wearing tight jeans. I smile and picture myself f*****g her on the sidewalk.
The light turns green.
We both cross the street, side by side.
She goes left. I go right.
The pedestrian light turns red, and across the street another poor soul awaits their turn to cross.

THE END