Mental Vomit

This will be brief. It does not have substance. It isn’t supposed to. Its sole purpose is to evoke a mental image.

In short, this is mental ‘spewage’ that needs grammatical/artistic (yes, there is art in the written word -_-) critiquing. God, assuming it actually had a hand in the Bible, most certainly didn’t hire an editor, and it shows ^_^. So, if God and its prophets can’t write perfectly, then we are certainly hopeless. The anonymity of the Internet allows for criticism without fear; thus, it’s far better to get an analysis on a board (like here) that in RL, where 90% of us have the "I’m everyone’s friend" syndrome.

Just no "this sucks" without giving reasons why; when you refine the appearance of a bush, you trim its edges. You don’t cut the trunk.

Here we go. Tell me what image you’re getting, and the problems with the execution of the text.

I lived in a waking dream. I opened my eyes just long enough to look at the clock on the desk.

"Useless…I need my glasses."

I slapped my forehead. My arm did not seem to want to move afterwards.

Roll over to the side, something whispered.

"No, that hurts, and I don’t want to get up."

You’re going to be late.

"Why should I care about being late?"

Because they own you.

"…Sleep always makes me tired and sore."

Then stop sleeping. Roll over to the side and get up.

Where are my glasses, I wondered. Stumbling out of bed, there was a glint of light that shouldn’t have been there. Looking back quickly…there are my glasses. The frames were worn, from years of being wrapped around a large and overly stuffed head. Turning back to the desk, the clock read 9:00.

"I guess I was right. I’m going to be late."

I tried to make coffee. Far too strong, it ended up getting poured into the milk carton. Chugging it all down tasted terrible. My eyes surged forward, swimming, struggling to take flight. That, apparently, is what sleep is supposed to taste like. I felt alive again.

Showering is supposed to be a pleasant experience. They were lying. The water burrows into your skin, millions of sharp, tiny pieces, lulling you back, closer to crossing death’s border. I just recovered from that. The shower was cold and short. Why the hell is it so easy to get wet and so hard to dry off?

I sloshed around in ill-fitted undergarments. Wallet. Keys. Bag. Dammit, where are my glasses? I went back into the bathroom, the kitchen. Nothing. Did I leave them in the bedroom…

A glint of light that shouldn’t have been there.

My glasses were on the pillow at the head of the bed. I honestly couldn’t remember putting them there. I..couldn’t remember a lot of things. What did I do for breakfast yesterday? Was there a message on the machine I wasn’t supposed to delete? How many bills were there this month? When was the last time I had a lover? The glint was fading. The taste of sleep was disappearing from my tongue. Is coffee lying to me as well? OH, I forgot to brush my teeth-

They own you.

I looked up wearily at the pillow. There were my glasses. Old, warped. I paused.

"…"

The sound of glass being crushed was faint, so faint it could be heard for miles. The dead wire frame fell to the ground, taking on a new shape. Its true shape. They were broken. They were useless.

They were free. No one owned those glasses anymore. No one wanted to.

"You don’t own me anymore."

I went back to bed. I refused to live the waking dream any longer. I want to live in freedom.