Shifting. part1. by parts due to laziness.

There are ants crawling on the wall on my right. There is a large cockroach on the wall on my left. Perhaps a foot's length separates me from each of them, and i am on a staircase.

The sign outside says something like "PSY,,, something."
Walking.

Upstairs.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

Walking.

Another corridor. Stairs again.
Tappity-tap. Tap. Tap.

There is a faucet dripping, somewhere, above.
It grows louder. Tap. Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap.
And i walk upstairs. Towards the faucet.

There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Either that or you're just lucky. And right now I am. Though this is no tunnel. And that is no sun."

"Good evening. I presume you are, uh, Mr. Diaz."
Tap-tap-tap.

Yes, I am, I say, I believe so, but please correct me if i'm wrong.
I smile. I imagine my braces shine.

Fuck you.

"Very well, please come inside."
Jet black hair. A semi-crumpled shirt. Dark, fair face. Black eyes. A white band of skin just beneath the edge of the shirt's sleeve.

You bastard.

A desk. Two chairs. A secretary with messed-up hair. Good evening to you, too. Yes, nice day. Oh, so I'm the last one today, that's nice, too. Late, again. The bathroom faucet needs repairs, and so she's noticed. Wow, so coincidental. So unplanned.
Bitch.

"Mr. Diaz."

A revolving chair. Two couches. The one's you watch on your television where rich, a-little-crazy people lay down, while rubbing their foreheads, chins, or anything else for that matter, sporting overcoats, canes, and tophats. Beside is the lamp, the lamp as tall as you; it changes intensity if you tap it.

Tap-tap-tap.

And here I am, imagining myself in black slacks with accentuating, off-white, pinstripes. Whoa.

"So, what is your problem, today, Mr. Diaz. Wait, first of all, what do you want me to call you?"

Asshole. Fuckass. Stupid. You decide.

"Mr. Diaz, then."

I have earphones in my ears, and I am listening to nothing. Emptiness. And by the way, I feel empty. I lack something. I feel nothing. I am not numb, but I can't feel anything. Emotionally, I add, quickly. I sort of fear, i say, pain. Maybe, I say-- though perhaps would be better.

Tap-tap-tap.

"Pain makes us alive; it makes us human. Blood is our lifestream, the force that makes us feel--"

The ribbon on my wrist says 'Do not open before Christmas.'
Asshole.

"That's not what I meant. We need to stop fearing pain; that is the first step for our recovery. Perhaps your fear for pain causes this. The fear itself causes the numbness, the unfeeling that you say."

My earphones say nothing, but i hear everything, ringing. And i speak what they are whispering.

Tap-tap-tap.

Ok. Now I feel really better. It is now 'we' who has the problem, not 'i.' Real great.
Bastard.

"What you need to see, Mr. Diaz, is that problems can be cured, solved. They just need some--"

Well imagine, I sing, a high note, as i, my speech slows, changes, returns to normal, am in my childhood days. No permanent friends. No permanent school. Computers. Books. Pens. Nothingness.

"Oh, I see."

And remember the friends, I say, the friends we knew for about a year, then we'll move again. Remember, remember, i say.

-------