That Buzzing

It’s the buzzing that does it. A dull, high pitched whine. So insistent yet pointless. Relentlessly passively obnoxious

That does something to me.

I can’t think. No- not true. I can think. But my thoughts are infected, corrupted by that noise. That noise.

What is it?

I don’t know what I’m asking. Am I talking about myself or the buzzing?

I know what the buzzing is. Not specifically. I’ve got a general idea. Some piece of machinery somewhere. The florescent lights for all I know.

I hate florescent lights.

The lights and the buzzing. It does something to me.

What does it feel like? A hospital? A prison? A microscope?

I don’t know. Maybe all of them.

It’s too quiet. Like a hospital. Just the buzz of machinery. My own breathing. Dying breaths. That’s what it sounds like. Is it the buzzing that gives it that effect?

I’m not dying.

I should thank someone for that. I never thank anyone anymore. Shame on me the ungrateful jerk. But what am I supposed to say? Thanks for saving my life, it meant a lot?

The trouble is, it didn’t mean a lot.

I was just sitting there, looking idly at death and someone pushed me back before it could touch me. I didn’t care. One minute I was on my feet, the next I was on the ground. That’s all there was to it. I didn’t care where that ground was I had been standing on. So what if it was the middle ground between death and life? It was just another stretch of ground.

I think the buzzing is infiltrating my brain. It feels like radiation. I can imagine it eating away at my brain like acid.

I can’t stand it.

I don’t know why. I can stand so much else.

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