A sentiment had been brewing inside me for some time, one which refused to dissipate. For every day for which I resided within society, the heavier this sentiment grew. It had latched itself at the back of my throat and had swirled down to my guts. Latching onto my instinct, it seemed to warn me that something was wrong.
The mind, that dualistic entity, separate from my brain, instructed me to ignore the logical compartments. Those that so often take precedence over the animal instinct. I knew something was wrong, I saw it around me every day. My conscious may have ignored the growing number of sirens echoing outside my house buy my ears could not. The sounds of the street were nothing but audio strips for the hurling sounds of emergency services and police patrols. Though I chose to ignore the significance of what my ears could hear, I could not help but peer out of my bedroom window. The glass of my windows were tainted with neglect and apathy — a mere reflection of the world outside of it.
The skies were grey, as always, and the wind was whistling through the leaves of the trees which injected vegetation in the otherwise concrete heavy street. All I saw were cars, driven by masked strangers who all shared a common trait. Sunken eyes, organic windows of a soul that had long gone. On the pavement, individuals laced their steps with discomfort and alertness. Though I did not know these people, and though I could not ask them, I sensed they knew something was wrong. I saw it on the faces of those I had met and of those I had yet to.
I could close my eyes or simply turn my attentions elsewhere and focus on my immediate vicinity. It may well have been that this feeling was nothing more than a disguised manifestation of my need to eat; yet I doubted this. To make sure of this, I headed to the kitchen and directed myself to the fridge. I opened its door and let my eyes guide themselves towards the light which emitted from the back. Inside the fridge, the shelves were bare — a smell escaped from a can of beans that had been open far too long — yet the vegetable draw was full. I pulled out a plum tomato and contoured it with my fingers to decipher its freshness. From the same draw I yanked out a cucumber, and with this I made a sandwich.
The sandwich, freshly made, sat on the plate that I laid on the counter. The bread was rather stale, and the tomato and cucumber had left more colour on the knife I cut them with that on the plate. The feeling in my stomach accentuated, and it precipitated me…