Perception Scene

Look, and pay close attention. Where are you now? You're sitting in your desk in English class, with the chattering ringing in your ears and all you can think about is how calm outside looks. The leaves rustle together in a sense like small children would, and the ground was as pale as your face could ever be. Almost as if your face was envious of the ground. The chatter dies down, and you abruptly notify yourself of the fact that you're on the bus ride home. A normal human being would say to themselves, that it went by rather fast. But you.. You're different. You think to yourself: "That happened in a matter of seconds. Not minutes, hours, days, but seconds."

Because, you see, there is no past, or future. Life only consists of the present. Then, following thought occurs, you're in your bed, uncomfortably wriggling around, staring at the popcorn ceiling; hoping the little bits don't fall inside the corners of your eyes.

Wake up, you're in English class again, only its four months later. But wait.. just a second ago, you were in bed. Yes, are you starting to see yet? Life goes by in seconds. Always in seconds. This thing we call our life's is made up of belittled moments, in which we cannot cherish, because they slip away from our creased fingertips as fast as you can cry out your lover's first name. So what's the point?

You're at your 21st Birthday party at the next second, throwing up in the bathroom, knowing you won't recall much in the morning. And so the cycle continues.

Additionally, there's something that decussates my every day mentation. How can I confide in the mirror to assure me that I look the way I believe that I do? I mean sure, I can witness my hair fall over my eyes, and I can feel my skin. But is that really present? Or am I just assuming so due to the mere fact that the mirror portrays it? Is it there because I believe in the mirrors assurance? Something I'll never know.
...

I bury my eyelids with my knuckles, and open them wide to find my wrinkled skin and bruises before me. I'm 68, and haven't a clue why my life ended so badly. I'm still short, I haven't a wife or grandchildren, and I still can't figure out how to drink my morning coffee, professionally. I still think about her. I still think about all the roads I would've blazed, with my tiny feet, one foot ascending the other in a child-like manner. I wear these old yellow overalls, in this incredibly small, grey-headed work of a home. I still tend to bite my finger, when I blush about the things the flowers tell me, when I'm gardening. Plant life grew all around me, because I was feeling rather lonely and to my astonishment, they decided to accompany me in small talk. I smiled because I knew, in the next second, I'd be dead.