I glanced at the clock – I do that a lot – time refused to move, it had retreated to some form of stubbornness which closely resembled mine. A stubbornness which began innocently but slowly mutated into some kind of depression which did its best to shut down all emotional output, save for dejection and anger. I continued sitting, staring at the wall, and half listening to a conversation being aimed at me. I realised, as person X went on talking, that I, for as long as I can remember, refused to pass judgment on anything. I suppose it was for this reason that I remained silent, as I do in most conversations. Past the dust-painted window the sky was blue, a murky blue which did nothing in raising spirits. So, for lack of anything to do, I crawled into the niche of my brain, my safe haven, and I initiated a conversation with myself. To clarify, these conversations are not in any way parallel to split-personality disorder, but rather an on-going self narration of my life coupled with a thought train travelling at top speed that never really stops. I think that’s where I’m happiest; I think I’m not human.
