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The world is spinning with the game my eyes play on me. My head hurts with the lights that flash on and off, torturing the eyes. A low, misty voice echoes in my ears. I wonder why once again. I am once again looking for answers to these questions that I cannot answer whenever I ask them. Why are people not divided into good and evil in religions and myths? Why are they divided into worshippers and non-worshippers? Why is it not enough for the gods that we are good to be human? Why should I be punished just because I don't worship something I can't see, does that make sense? The more I think and question, the more I turn into someone my environment doesn't want, but what if that's what I want. Why do I always think, why do I always have to say yes? Why is that?286Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIDerDNiIiT
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For some people, questioning is good because it improves them and they are not judged by others. But what about me here? I can't speak out. Not only with these questions, I'm tired of thinking and preoccupying myself with tons of burdens that these questions bring, what if my environment doesn't accept me, what if I make everything more shitty. These questions are starting to keep me awake. Either there is no answer or I can't find it.
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As I struggle with these thoughts, nausea appears. My feet are moving independently of me. I could swear that my feet are guiding me right now, not my brain. When my feet stop at a point, my brain, which can only think halfway, enters through what it thinks is a door. And that's where it all ends. It's like my brain is playing tricks on me.
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That's all I remember from last night. I smile to myself for being able to come home with such a faint head. But I have a problem. I'm in a house, but it's not my house. The paint in the house looks like the paint in my house. The paintings on the wall, the pot on the console and the statue of Libertas... It looks like my house, but I'm sure it's not my house.
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I stop examining the house and look for a person but I can't find one. After making sure that no one is there, I decide to leave and yes, again a problem, the door is locked. I look everywhere I can see, drawers, under the couch, pillowcases but no, no key. I go out to the balcony thinking that maybe I can jump but I am in the penultimate apartment of a five-story apartment building. The possibilities run through my head, if I jump I might hit my head, at best I'll survive with fractures and scratches. But this is the best possibility.
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Finally, I come in through the balcony and sit on a sofa, sorting questions in my head. How did I get here, whose house is it, did someone bring it, if so, why isn't it there, why is the house locked, why am I not allowed to leave? These thoughts get on my nerves. I look for a phone, a means of communication, but there is none. It is as if something wants to suppress me, to restrict me. I stand up again. I look at the opposite apartment through the door hole, which I think is about 1.5 cm. A wooden door painted blue and symbols painted on the door, probably by the landlord. Thanks to this door, which is both far and close to me, I get away from my thoughts a little. I knock on the door a few times in case anyone hears me, but no. I can't get out of this damn place. I go to the couch again and lie down this time.
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