Day 2

by

in

SIGHT – SOUNDS – TASTE – TOUCH – SMELL – BODY – MOTION

5 mins: Bathroom Mirror

A reflection in the mirror can be quite hard to take, filled with the dread that irks your calm when you must confess something you did. Criss-crossed by the stains where beads of water once dared to tread, they refract the light that shines upon it like a victim deflecting an assailant. Glorious in the moonlight, in the crisp cool air of night, the taste of stale water drawn to mind by the evidence the reflective glass has many times be graced by nature’s finest simple fluid. As you move, it moves with you, the rooms in spins and bends, as if you we upon a bed and the room were spinning around. To gaze upon the mirror is to gaze into new worlds – exact in every way but, they’re the opposite way to you.

  • Review: Sight, body, taste, motion

10 mins: Dentist

The room is stark and clinical, a chairs awaits its victim. It look comfortable under the light of an LED sun above it. The air is thick with anticipation, so thick it’s hard to fill your lungs with oxygen, but of course, you mustn’t let on. The chair it moves as you sit in it, slightly like if you tried to sneak onto a children’s roundabout. Arms resting on arm rests, cool to the touch like a cold radiator catches you in the cool evening air, not jump or you’ll let on, the anguish sat inside you now, your guts twisted and drawn.

You rest your head back and the chair it squeaks, like creeping through a door ajar in the quiet night – a creak so horrifying and loud, but no one else is aware. Put your head back and open wide – it feels like your opening your soul to be prodded and pricked, harrassed and torn as the tools they do advance. And closer, closer and close still, in the hands of a steady dentist. As you look up the artificial suns blights your sight, and at once your eyes close shut. It’s dark in here, but your know you’re on show, like a police interrogation room might be.

Around your mouth it feels like a murder of crows has entered it and are digging around for your garbage – desperate to find a morsel that proves you indeed have been a bad boy. The clear air enters your lungs – but it reeks of mouthwash fluid, it singes your nostrils on the way through, it’s certainly not reassuring. Try not to flinch and they press in, and oush upon your teeth, like the worst grinding you’ve ever felt, but there is some relief. Counting numbers without a character, like an android to a servant.

  • Review: sight, body, sound, smell, touch, motion, taste

90 Secs: Screwdriver

Cold to the touch the silver blade rounded for success, a handle with the smell of rubber grips so beautifully, gripping the groove upon your skin. Your search for connection with a screw but feels disconnected from you, a little like you’ve had a few.

  • review: touch, body

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