Y

They are waiting. Chair after chair, they are waiting for.

Especially in the right corner; over there, can you see? He comes here every day. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, when They call him in. One - jumps up, two – the floor is yellow (like the lemon), three – makes it half way there, and four – turns around to check if he didn’t forget his (he doesn’t even know what, but he does turn around, every time). Inside, They know him well; inside the room at least. They always ask how are you today Mr. Why, and he always answers fine. The chair in the very center of the very everything brings him to the ground, and he asks the doctor, quieter with every letter, have you changed your mind? He starts to get up before even mind stops ringing in the air; then, leaves fast enough to be able to believe that the no was just a whistle. The floor is yellow (like the sun).
It is the springtime when he is walking back home. It’s always the springtime because what is he supposed to worry about? Tomorrow, there is always one. Smiling to people, to dogs, and strollers, he gets quite easily through the city of Moderate Joy. He has a decent (well above average) family and social life. He enjoys a decent (well above average) social status. He generally is decent (meaning well above average).
A little boy runs up to him the moment he opens the door of his house. While they joke and giggle, a sudden needle goes through his mind. There is just a little grimace on his face, nothing more. He misses a word or two of the conversation, but what’s that; he easily joins again; and jokes, and giggles. That happens sometimes.
In the evening, he goes to the movies. It’s probably a decent movie, that is played – one that one should go and see. So they, a woman and he, go; so they see. The main character has some problems, as it usually is, and in the peak point of the movie everything seems to work against him or her, as it usually is. In the end, though, a something incredibly unlikely happens, and all the problems are solved. He or she lives happily ever after, as it usually is. He hates the movie, even though it’s decent (well above average).
In the evening, oftentimes, he doesn’t go to the movies. He then maybe does absolutely nothing, at the same time, not being bored, and not feeling the nothingness at all. Just, afterwards, it jumps out at him that the language, that his society uses, describes the way he spends his evening as doing nothing.
He sleeps well, generally. His doctor uses this fact against him. If he would only have problem falling asleep, if he was lying restlessly for hours, or was waking up every twenty minutes, then the doctor could place a check mark next to sleeplessness, which maybe would change the final decision. But he does sleep well. Why wouldn’t he? The dreams, whatever they are, are always just the dreams.
Mornings are chilly. It’s the kind of chilly that makes one not want to get up. He does, though, and he feels decent (well above average) when he gets ready for the new, better day. In the kitchen, when taking out a bowl, he glances at the calendar and an overwhelming feeling flows on him for a second or two. He feels a desperate will to hide, but he is not able to move. It’s just a second, maybe two, so one wouldn’t notice anything but a little twitch of muscles, and a grimace on his face. Then he pours some milk. That happens sometimes.
His work is decent (well above average). It starts, and it ends; it’s like this everyday. He enters, he is, and then he leaves. There is no meanwhile. When he is, he takes irregular rides on his chair from the computer to the other desk; he drinks a coffee, one, two, three; he exchanges more or less important comments with his coworkers. Maybe when he reaches for the eleventh gulp from the second cup of coffee, a picture appears in front of his mind. He narrows his eyes half a second too late. Too late to preserve his peace of mind untouched. There is just a little grimace on his face, nothing more. Twelfth gulp of coffee comes as expected. That happens sometimes.
During the last fifteen minutes at work, he gets a bit nervous. He always tries to get out a little earlier. Even a minute or half a minute makes him satisfied. Then he rushes to the doctor’s office. The spring looks and feels a bit watery in the afternoon. He doesn’t notice an accident that takes place right by; a vehicle vs. a pedestrian; 1:0. This accident happens every day; why would he notice?
He enters the waiting room. The lighting is too bright, and the walls are too blue. They are all waiting. Chair after chair, they are waiting for an excuse. He sits in the right corner, right in front of the door that says:
"Dr. …
[he doesn’t remember his doctor’s name, even though he reads it every day for the last fifteen years]
Psychiatrist"
They call his name. Inside, it’s quite cold. The chilly air narrows already forced smiles on the doctor’s and the nurse’s faces. He is fine, as always. Doesn’t he have a decent (well above average) life? He must be fine. He throws out his usual question in the air, hoping a bit that it won’t be heard. His defeat gets to him slowly, with every word which he hears himself saying. He flies out of the room while still finishing mind. Doctor’s I’m sorry hits the just closed door.


For the last fifteen years, he has been visiting the psychiatrist hoping that They will find out that there is something wrong with him, hoping that They will qualify him as having this or other illness, hoping that They will give him a label – the excuse from being happy. That’s his only dream. They stubbornly claim, though, that he is in a perfect health.

So he lives like that, happily ever after.

p-apier . 16.07.2007 :: 09:22

:*
bo dawno nie byłem.

benedick . 14.07.2007 :: 01:51

nic nowego :(

madebynature . 11.07.2007 :: 16:54

ktoś tu ma talent, nie ma co.podoba mi się.

nona . 25.06.2007 :: 21:55

(indeo) aja, ja teraz tutaj tylko już.

Benedick16 . 10.06.2007 :: 02:00

Kasiu, wybacz ze przeczytalem tylko pierwszy i ostatni paragraf.
Ale... bardzo mi si epodoba to co jest w srodku.

indeo . 07.06.2007 :: 13:01

twoje. ciekawie napisane, aja.

aja . 06.06.2007 :: 02:37

moje

indeo . 05.06.2007 :: 20:49

dobrze, iż szczęśliwie żyje.
czy to cytat, czy to twoje?

marthasmoke . 04.06.2007 :: 10:27

łaaaał.
zatkało mnie.

[choć w sumie, na dobrą sprawę, to by chyba nie szedł do psychiatry a do terapeuty czy czegoś tam. bo psychiatra to w sumie tylko lekarstwa wypisuje :P. a z resztą, kij wie.]

naprawdę, naprawdę pięknie to napisałaś.
może nawet mi się bardziej podoba dlatego że jest wpół do drugiej rano ;)
a z resztą, kij wie.