My head is pounding and my legs are weak, so much so that I do not trust them to carry me much further, and my fingers seek out support when I walk, be it a handrail or cubicle wall.
Something about this environment/headspace drives me to write, but when I look over what it is I’ve written, only trite, uninspired words greet me.
The fire behind my eyes that makes the world double when I am not paying strict attention is casting a harsh edge on my vision, somehow making the florescent lighting even more cruel to the people I see.
I almost typed there the people I mutter ‘hello’ to — but it occurred to me that I didn’t say hello this morning, not to a single person.
In fact, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen anyone in this building before in my entire life.
If I left now, not a soul would notice. No-one here knows my name, my face, or why it is I come here.
No person would notice, but a mark would be left in some computer database in a place far, far away from here, and I would never be welcome within these walls again.
There is something more.