The Quicksand House

It starts with a breeze, a shift, a squeeze, as the walls start churning, turning, and the world starts burning down around me. Falling. It is in the falling I am crawling, scrawling, trying not to falling but falling anyways, down, down, down, down, down.

The walls are quicksand.

My house is no longer a house but a falling, crumbling structure of mixed bones and broken puncture wounds of debris, of dead mice and unsnapped traps. A funny joke once, but now an echo of screams as I am falling, falling down, towards the center of the earth, the ceiling high above, the only thing left unbroken and unseen.

It scorns. Me.

I reach for ropes that do not exist. I gasp and grasp and wonder wish. I cough and sputter, choke and mutter, but my mutters are not cries or screams. The sand drowns them out. It is quick to do so. It is quick to fall, descend, fall, descend, fall.

Darkness.

There is darkness everywhere, a kindly crushing broken despair. My lungs contort and smash and crush, my mind burns and breaks to broken mush. My house has betrayed me, my body has abandoned me, and my mind, well, it’s all in the mind, now isn’t it?

It’s a shame how fast the body can turn upon itself; it’s a shame how fast the brain can burn alone withheld. It’s a shame…It’s a shame how the self can fall and fall, and the mind, well, it’s all in the mind now isn’t it?

.

I’ve been reading House of Leaves and drinking Irish Coffee all day. I’m very tired. This is what happened in the four minutes between finishing chapter 12 and taking a nap. I’m going to nap now. I hope you’ve all had a happy Easter, whether you believe in anything or nothing. I’m quite partial to nothing myself, but sometimes something is…well, something.

Please to enjoy.

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