Written in IT

While I was supposed to be "exploring exciting career oppurtunities!" I wrote this instead.

You forget how you got here

and the question pierces a fine tantrum through your mind.

Maybe the question is this:

Why are you here? Where did you come from?

But no, the question you're too afraid to ask is:

What happens next?

You have, after all, no idea what you've gotten yourself into.

You see some faces, and an instinct tells you they mean something to you.

But your ability to recognise their details is lost like you are.

Some voices cut through the intangible boom of a hundred conversations,

and though you've heard the words before,they tell you nothing you can use.

You feel a heat that's overbearing, but don't worry, you're not really burning.

That's just your superficial arteries dilating, flushing blood from your core.

The same thing happens with alcohol, but as far as you know

you're still sober.

Your skin's moist and one of these faces that seem so familiar to you points and stares,

saying "Your face!"

Somehow, you know what these words mean and touch your cheeks and your lips.

The touch of your hands feels so warm.Y

ou think you might be sick, and feel something coming up.

But it's not something inside you.

Your face meets with the floor,

and though the floor is cold and hard

you tell yourself it's like falling into the deepest, softest bed.

And suddenly, the question doesn't feel so real anymore.

Because cold and wounded,

lost in the crowd,you feel safe.

And the lie is more comforting than any reality.

So you tell yourself that you're home.