Breakfast at Tiffany's
When I came too, my brain was alight with a flurry of new sensation. I could barely concentrate.
I floundered between the incoming waves of stimulus to take in my surroundings.
I was no longer in the work room. I had been moved to our bedroom.
The length of the mattress extended off towards the far wall.
The familiar wood of the night table peeked out from beneath me.
Hanging overhead, a hemisphere of what looked to be colored glass, sat obscuring my view.
My subconcious mind struggled to escape, even before my forward thoughts realized what I was seeing.
It looped over the possibilites again and again, trying to make some sense of it.
Trying to escape the truth of what it was seeing. What it was feeling.
The lampshade hanging above me, was my own.
I could feel it. It's surface. It's imperfections. It's shape circling behind and beyond my peripheral.
The wind from the far window passing over it's surface.
Just like the metal sphere that I became. That became me.
Each tick of the clock created new connections. The separation between it and I pared down to nothing with each passing second.
I could feel my legs, and how they blended with the base they were affixed to.
How my arms extended up, beyond my view, the bulbous form of a lightsocket where my hands should be.
I could feel the grooves where a bulb would sit, and the protrusion of what felt like a switch.
Like a blind mans fingers upon a new face, my mind traced over the contours of my body.
Piecing it together.
Shakily repeating in it's disbelief.
...I was not a lamp.
Time and again I would search for some way to prove the sensations false, and fail.
...I was a not lamp.
...I was not a piece of furniture.
But no matter how many times the phrase was repeated, it did not change what I was feeling, or where I now resided.
In our room; on our bed table; holding aloft a lampshade like a prized possession.
The urge to close my eyes, to black out what I was seeing, was only met with stillness.
The failed attempt only serving to reinforce that which I was denying.
Sethra, as always, had spoken words of truth.
I sat there, for some time, teetering between shock and disbelief. My mind wrestling against what it was seeing, unable to fit it's current experience into a pre-existing slot of expectation.
I flipped back and forth between the benefits of acceptance, and the urge to fight the reality in which I was now ensconced.
The center of the problem, I believed, was that acceptance was winning.
The sensations that my new form was pumping into my conciousness, were stripping away all remnants of my old self.
The input was simply stronger.
Like a dream of a better place, the memories I grabbed at just didn't seem as real as the moment.
And the moment, as I was to learn, was far from over.
Before I could acclimatize, I was made quite aware of my body shaking. Lightly at first, the approaching vibrations coursed through me with increasing strength, eventually demanding all of my attention.
The footfalls crashed against the ground. Crashed against my mind. Each one more pronounced than the one before.
Heel toe.
Heel toe.
Each approaching step growing louder until Sethra entered the room, a wooden crate nestled in her arms.
...Continued in Part 3
I floundered between the incoming waves of stimulus to take in my surroundings.
I was no longer in the work room. I had been moved to our bedroom.
The length of the mattress extended off towards the far wall.
The familiar wood of the night table peeked out from beneath me.
Hanging overhead, a hemisphere of what looked to be colored glass, sat obscuring my view.
My subconcious mind struggled to escape, even before my forward thoughts realized what I was seeing.
It looped over the possibilites again and again, trying to make some sense of it.
Trying to escape the truth of what it was seeing. What it was feeling.
The lampshade hanging above me, was my own.
I could feel it. It's surface. It's imperfections. It's shape circling behind and beyond my peripheral.
The wind from the far window passing over it's surface.
Just like the metal sphere that I became. That became me.
Each tick of the clock created new connections. The separation between it and I pared down to nothing with each passing second.
I could feel my legs, and how they blended with the base they were affixed to.
How my arms extended up, beyond my view, the bulbous form of a lightsocket where my hands should be.
I could feel the grooves where a bulb would sit, and the protrusion of what felt like a switch.
Like a blind mans fingers upon a new face, my mind traced over the contours of my body.
Piecing it together.
Shakily repeating in it's disbelief.
...I was not a lamp.
Time and again I would search for some way to prove the sensations false, and fail.
...I was a not lamp.
...I was not a piece of furniture.
But no matter how many times the phrase was repeated, it did not change what I was feeling, or where I now resided.
In our room; on our bed table; holding aloft a lampshade like a prized possession.
The urge to close my eyes, to black out what I was seeing, was only met with stillness.
The failed attempt only serving to reinforce that which I was denying.
Sethra, as always, had spoken words of truth.
I sat there, for some time, teetering between shock and disbelief. My mind wrestling against what it was seeing, unable to fit it's current experience into a pre-existing slot of expectation.
I flipped back and forth between the benefits of acceptance, and the urge to fight the reality in which I was now ensconced.
The center of the problem, I believed, was that acceptance was winning.
The sensations that my new form was pumping into my conciousness, were stripping away all remnants of my old self.
The input was simply stronger.
Like a dream of a better place, the memories I grabbed at just didn't seem as real as the moment.
And the moment, as I was to learn, was far from over.
Before I could acclimatize, I was made quite aware of my body shaking. Lightly at first, the approaching vibrations coursed through me with increasing strength, eventually demanding all of my attention.
The footfalls crashed against the ground. Crashed against my mind. Each one more pronounced than the one before.
Heel toe.
Heel toe.
Each approaching step growing louder until Sethra entered the room, a wooden crate nestled in her arms.
...Continued in Part 3
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