TW: EMETO So, originally, it was prose I wrote because I got really scared and anxious, then I decided, "this sounds like a Mind thing" so I edited it a little bit to work with Mind, and I put it in my fanfic. I spoke it out too if u want something to read with you.. Work. One, two, three, try your hardest to keep up, manage, manage schedules, manage hours, manage time. Time, what a slippery thing. It was an oil covered snake, and I had butter on my hands. The butter left over from embracing my bread. Damn it. And steel-heels clicked against the hardwood. Pins and paper and paper and pins everywhere. Click. Click. Click. Tick tock went the clock. There is no time. Why is the clock in here if time is a construct? I can’t construct time, time doesn’t exist, yet it does, it’s the absence of what is forward and the memory behind. Behind me, the dark, quiet abyss of the night before and in front of me, the dark quiet abyss of the night tonight. Tonight, I must make this right. More pins and paper. All stuck into a bulletin board and all stuck into the quicksand of time slipping through my fingers like a sieve and sand. Writing on said paper that now looked like Japanese gibberish, even if I never spoke Japanese once in my automated life and automated memory, were memories like a photo album more than actual, honest to Newton memories. Pins and paper and Japanese and gibberish pacing and pinning and words and numbers and calmness and supposed ‘carefulness’. Words and numbers that no longer held meaning but were held up to the bulletin board anyways as if they had an insistent importance. They didn’t. I didn’t take them down though. Pacing, pins, papers, pinning, bulletins, words, numbers, Japanese, gibberish, words and words and word vomit and I think I’m going to vomit, but I can’t vomit, I can’t vomit, I don’t have the biological functions to vomit. Keep pacing, keep pacing. Biology? Biology in every living organism in this room, germs, bacteria, possibly Heart watching me unravel, shut the door, shut the door shut the door shut the door. Slam the door. It slammed shut now this racetrack of a room was open to pace and pace and pace and pace. Word vomit, don’t vomit, lunch was nice, did I even have lunch? Keep pacing. Pace and pace and pace and pace. Repeated actions to soothe the body are called ‘stims’ by the media, and that was a common thing. Pace and pace and pace and pace. But it was weak. Pace and pace and pace and pace. So, I should stop pace and pace and pace and pacing. Sit down, take a breath, glance around, no one’s here to watch me. Why would anyone be in my room to watch me pace and pace and pace and pace? Why is the bulletin board so full yet empty of anything I need? What is even on there? Get up, stop pacing but just walk like a functioning being, look at the stuff, see next to nothing of importance, why is there nothing? Why is there just word vomit. Please don’t vomit, please don’t vomit. Gibberish in Japanese that never existed but is now just a smudge on pinned paper. A smudge of black ink and red highlights and why is it swelling? Why is it swelling? The word vomit is swelling, please don’t vomit. I don’t want to vomit. But it seemed so overwhelming. Click. Tick. Click. Tock. Paper words and paper towns and paper nothingness on a paper board made of itty-bitty paper shards that could give you papercuts. No. That’s not true. Bulletin boards can’t give you paper cuts. Bulletin boards aren’t even made of paper. I think. Yeah. No, they’re not made of paper. But I just pace and pace pondering about pinning paper to a pseudo-paper board we call a bulletin board. I should stop pacing, but my legs yell at me and say they need to pace, even if my left is in extreme pain. Pained appendage and paper pinned to a board. Paper of plans? I don’t remember. All I know now is that it’s word vomit. Oh, damn it- I think I’m going to vomit; I’m going to vomit- stop, please don’t vomit please don’t vomit… I think I vomited. It flooded the floor. Oh Newton. It’s everywhere. Uhm. Step back, find something to clean it up. A mop! Where’s the mop? In the basement. I don’t think I’m in the basement, I’m upstairs. I have to go down two (2) flights of stairs to get to the basement. And I started mounting down the stairs, away from the paper and… and… and… uhm…
