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Trapped. It was one of the hottest days of that year. In one of those suffocating months of July, where its so hot, you sleep in the bath, dreaming of being covered in ice cubes,

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Trapped It was one of the hottest days of that year. In one of those suffocating months of July, where it's so hot, you sleep in the bath, dreaming of being covered in ice cubes, as if you were a gin and tonic. I had found that I was waking up over two hours earlier each day, just to be able to have that longer shower, to wash off the undying heat which one accumulates through sleep. I went to work by metro, so the early starts gave me time to beat the horrific claustrophobia that came with the rush hour of the underground world. There were enough ingredients in the recipe of my life making me sweat, that the thought of being stuck in what would be literally "downtown" Madrid for hours on end just gave me a headache. The heat was unbearable that day, it was so humid, I felt as if my entire body was rolled up in a steaming airline flannel. Not unlike the "KFC Chicken Wrap" that I was devouring at 8:15am. I looked out of the grease ridden window, from my grease ridden table, staring for over fifteen minutes straight, and did not see one person out and about. ...read more.


One might think it would be lower, unless one has lived and worked in a demanding advertising agency in the capital city of Spain. The looming, dooming thought of eleven hours enduring constant phone rings, broken fax machines, toner-less photocopiers, and at least three never ending stacks of paperwork to be done, each with late deadlines. Yes, now I can relax, like any other day. And there, sitting in my white chair, leaning on my white desk, I started on my first endless pile of work, just like every other day that I had stopped for breakfast � la colonel. I started to write without thinking, using my "auto pilot" skills that Garc�a had hired me for. "I am alive, I am very lucky". Always the same sentence, day after day, month after month, year after year. It was a therapy, you see, that my psychologist had thought would help me. And that's how I have spent three years, writing that same sentence everyday. It was my treatment. My condition: writer's block. The cause: my guilt. Not a decent word had come out of my head onto a page since it had happened. ...read more.


But I'm trapped. In my white office, in front of a white desk, and a piece of white paper. A white chair, with big wheels that do my work for me, they walk for me and that decide my fate. They control me. I do try, thanks to the therapy, and my psychologist, not to hate the summer, not to despise the heat. But sometimes, when I look through the window, and I see that the wind isn't making the trees sway, that people don't go out to walk. I feel nauseous, and when I think of those wet eyes, I have to try very hard not to be jealous of his luck. "I am alive, I am very lucky". I wish my psychologist could only see; I may have arrived, I may have succeeded, achieving my one objective, but what if it wasn't the right one? It wasn't good enough, I wasn't good enough. He went through the same agony, and the same asphyxia, he lost his glory and so did I. We both arrived, but now he touched the sky. And there, he will spend his holidays, and the rest of eternity. And me? I'm trapped. Alexandra Halse, English Personal and Imaginative ...read more.

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