Eighth Day

So it's been a week now.

It's a bit like being in a bath, being in here. When I got in, the water was hot. It stung me so much I went numb. When the guy came to interview me, it was like turning on the taps for short bursts of cold and hot water. Then over the last few days, when boredom set in, it was lukewarm. I became horribly aware of myself, just like in a warm-ish bath where your attention gets diverted from the heat of the water to the fact that you're sat in it. Now, the water is cold. The boredom - the lukewarmness - has gone. Like being sat in a cold, stale bath, it's unpleasant.

Bath?

Bath?! Christ, I was right yesterday about checking what I write. Bath? What is this: a diary of incarceration or a collection of shit analogies?

Today is a Saturday. I think about what I would be doing. Drinking coffee, being out and about like everyone else. Saturday: that long day of things that you can't do during the week; the things that a job - so often compared to a prison - stop you from doing.

In fact, this reminds me in a superficial way of the summer jobs of my student days. The boredom, the horrible feeling of the sands of time slipping through your fingers, leaving nothing but a few trapped grains and a slightly itchy, dry feeling.

My mouth is dry. Whatever saliva there is, though, I can taste. And blinking - I'm aware that I'm blinking. I can't focus on much else. Like in primary school when one of the children would go round pointing out to everyone that they were blinking. Everyone would become aware of it. And try and stop.

I try it now. 10 seconds. A few blinks. Now 20 seconds. Now 30.

A drop of sweat falls from my armpit and hits the slightly clammy flesh on the side of my torso. It shatters my concentration on not blinking. Must stop writing, in case I dislodge more drops of sweat by moving my arm.

I hate the feeling of my own chilled sweat on my flesh. I wouldn't notice it much, normally.

That's all I can do here. Sweat, produce saliva, and occasionally excrete. Exist.

And write poorly-composed prose about it.

Maybe I should try remembering something? Anything. But my mind is blank.

40 seconds.

50.