John lay on his side on the edge of the bed and watched the texture of the wall go blurry. Outside, the sun was shining and birds were probably chirping and all that shit. But inside of his room, John was a monument to darkness. The room was dark. His mind was dark. The skin under his eyes was dark.
The walls weren’t doing much except giving John something to stare at. And there wasn’t much else in the apartment. A few milk crates to serve as tables, chairs, stools, etc. John had only been living in the apartment a few days. It was a mistake. He knew that. It was all a mistake.
John’s brain was about the size of a nerf football with the ends chewed off. It was a lump of magic that he did not understand. He had never given it much thought. But now it was all he could think about. This is because John was lost in the Guantanamo Bay of the mind. His thoughts were water-board nightmares. He did not know how to make it stop. He did not have the energy to make it stop. It wouldn’t stop.
John’s brain was asking questions. It had doubts. It wanted answers that John did not have. He did not know why he could not remember important things. He did not know why he had sabotaged his life. He wasn’t even sure if he was the one who had done it. So, he spent hours lying on his bed, turning the wall blurry, and wondering.