I stand in a hallway, see doors every where. I don't want to be in the hallway, but it is not an option. The doors go either ways, but no matter what door I open, my hands will be scorched. I am fuzzy. The question of how I got into the maze is still quarreling with my scheme to get out, and my brain is none the straighter. The maze is not interminable, but it ticks in a way I can't lay my hand on. It evolves itself.
The mirrors are not kind here. There is no way to hide those things which one is ashamed of. It is dark, but not dark enough. There is light, but not for illumination.
The children's voices call out. I hear other voices too. I am weary. I cannot think straight. I dont feel good. I feel dragged. I am free to move, but the movement is painful.
I think of Bree's mum's mask. I think of Fatal Attraction. I think of Plath.
(Image credit: Mask finger painted by Figlia)
Well, that's a pretty powerful and poetic description of your feelings. Well done.
ReplyDeleteI hope you find an acceptable exit to the hallway/maze.