It Snows In Your Mind Too

He had slowly started to feel the pain in his lower back increase. The relentless ticking of the clock was nailed deep into his skull, definitely causing a crack or two, rupturing the perfect surface of bone once encasing his decaying mind. His eyes strained to focus on the screen, wishing his thin-framed glasses were more of a help to protect him from the screen’s glare. Tiredness crept to the edge of his fingertips as he hovered them over the keys of his computer, searching for even an ounce of strength to put his skinny hands to work. He couldn’t even remember what he was writing for. But he couldn’t bear to sit in the shattering silence that spread like a sickness the moment he stopped typing. So he forced his body to continue moving, desperately searching for a thread of inspiration that could unravel his brain and fill the words on the screen with meaning. And yet, the words continued to flow with no backbone, filling every corner of the page while holding no weight behind the mask of letters, leaving an empty shell of language that was nothing more than nonsense that offensively claimed to be anything more. Like a machine, he kept going, painfully aware of his actions holding no value while his body grew colder by the minute. A slight movement was caught out of the corner of his eye and he paused his work to strain his neck sharply to the left, gazing out the large window that extended throughout the entire wall. The snow had picked up, slowly but surely covering the outside world with a blanket of dangerous purity. He attempted to make shapes out of the darkness hidden behind the snow but to no avail, the outside remained a mystery. The air around him became so still as if it was slowly wrapping around his neck and suffocating any last thought of normalcy. His chair painfully screeched against the floor as he jumped up from his chair, moving as if through survival instinct. A hidden force with unknown motives beckoned the man’s soul to follow it into the halls of the building. Without thought, he began placing one foot after another, almost stumbling under the curiosity that caused his entire body to tremble. The air stretched so thin that his lungs felt like collapsing while his heart pounded against his chest, begging to rip itself from his bruised flesh and follow the force without its vessel. And still, he continued, almost without choice. 

The hallway stretched farther than he could comprehend until he could roughly make out a large window that rested at the end of the hall, waiting for him, beckoning to his soul. The hallway appeared so perfect: every tile forced into place, every door symmetrically opposing one another, every light spaced out evenly across, not a speck of dirt after a long day of work. He could still remember the rush of footsteps that overcrowded this hallway just a few hours ago. You could feel the desperation to escape the responsibility that came with the desk that enslaved these people daily. But somehow, the hallway was spotless, appearing as brand new as the first day it opened. While every inch was overpowered by the beaming lights hanging from the ceiling, an undeniable darkness rested in the air, waiting for its turn to bare its fangs. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. His duty lay in his parasitic desk chair, waiting for the return of its host. And yet he could not turn back as he was overcome with the allusion of freedom that rested so innocently on the tip of his tongue, unknowingly ready to shove itself to the back of his throat and destroy him from the inside out. 

As he continued to walk down the hall, he barely felt like himself anymore. The shell of the man he once was was now tearing at the seams, exposing a soul full of such emptiness that it only blended in with the horrific atmosphere of the hall. Not knowing what he was anymore, he began to strip his clothes. He balanced himself as he carefully removed each shoe, tossing them to the ground after slipping them off along with his socks. Tugging at his tie, he eventually began ripping at his white button-down shirt, desperate to remove whatever was covering his skin. His underwear quickly followed after removing his trousers, revealing the bare essence of who he was. There was no illusion, no layer of skin that created a false story of success, no false narrative that could protect him from the scarring truth: he was a failure. 

Quickly he picked up his pace, turning what once was a calm stroll into a full sprint. But the window didn’t come any closer. He swore he could have been running for days, blindly placing one foot in front of the other, only to feel as though he was further away from the window than he’s ever been. It was foolish to think he could escape, but humans are so fascinating in the way they refuse to admit inferiority. Not once did the man look back because if he did, it was admitting defeat. He could feel the cold growing on his naked back, seeping further into his body until his bones felt like ice. But he never averted his gaze. He continued to stare down the mouth of the beast that waited for him at the end of the hallway. Extending his hand, he had wished to be completely swallowed by the unknown promises that lay waiting behind that window. He could hear the harsh wind attacking the walls of the building, hissing and begging to break through. The snow now covered the bottom of the window, leaving whatever to be desired buried underneath the cold blanket of illusion. It was beginning to slip through his hands. Leaving it to fate, he closed his eyes and jumped.

The sound of shattering glass only emphasized the broken shards that protruded out of his flesh. But pain meant nothing to him now. His back turned to the ground, he could face the sky in an attempt to find hidden meaning in the stars. But there were none. Left was only the moon that stared into his eyes and begged the question: are you really free?

The moment his back had made contact with the snow, he jolted up to find himself sitting in his desk chair, his work untouched as when he left it. He quickly glanced out the window. The snow had stopped. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging so tight to his body it was hard to imagine they ever left. But he just continued to mindlessly type away, letting the echoing sound of keys consume his mind. All that was left was him, the screen, and his shattered glasses that rest quietly on his face.