I’m having difficulty keeping my breath under control and my heart hammers against my ribs. Everything is familiar, but at the same time everything is unknown.
I feel as if I have entered a decompression chamber, sealed off from the outside world, a perfect vacuum housing its own solitary universe; a womb-like temperature that keeps the occupants content, along with the pills they consume with their insipid lunch. Odours of cleaning-polish, urine and a faint whiff of boiled cooking cabbage hang in the air like steam from a dirty kettle.
I step into the sterile, muted hallway and my footsteps echo dully on the rubber floor. Above me the sound of a fluorescent strip light buzzes comfortably, while a distant squeak of wheels and a door clanging shuts signalizing human activity somewhere down in the placid depths of the building.
I start to walk, trailing my fingers against the recently painted walls. They have used cheap whitewash instead of gloss and the resulting slightly gritty sensation feels as if I am dragging my nails across a blackboard. Resignedly, I let the corridor guide me to the room precisely three doors on the left. The palms of my hands are sticky and my fingers twitch. When I touch the door I notice it is already open. This, in my experience, is quite unusual.
I walk in, and immediately my feet sink into the thick pile carpet, as if I have started to wade across sand. I have to resist the momentary urge to take my shoes and socks off and paddle in the glorious warm shallows like a child. Instead, as adults must, I stand for a moment, taking in my surroundings, the comfortable room with the smell of dust rising faintly from its thick wooden furniture and the sagging, expectant shelves of books.
I feel as if I have entered a decompression chamber, sealed off from the outside world, a perfect vacuum housing its own solitary universe; a womb-like temperature that keeps the occupants content, along with the pills they consume with their insipid lunch. Odours of cleaning-polish, urine and a faint whiff of boiled cooking cabbage hang in the air like steam from a dirty kettle.
I step into the sterile, muted hallway and my footsteps echo dully on the rubber floor. Above me the sound of a fluorescent strip light buzzes comfortably, while a distant squeak of wheels and a door clanging shuts signalizing human activity somewhere down in the placid depths of the building.
I start to walk, trailing my fingers against the recently painted walls. They have used cheap whitewash instead of gloss and the resulting slightly gritty sensation feels as if I am dragging my nails across a blackboard. Resignedly, I let the corridor guide me to the room precisely three doors on the left. The palms of my hands are sticky and my fingers twitch. When I touch the door I notice it is already open. This, in my experience, is quite unusual.
I walk in, and immediately my feet sink into the thick pile carpet, as if I have started to wade across sand. I have to resist the momentary urge to take my shoes and socks off and paddle in the glorious warm shallows like a child. Instead, as adults must, I stand for a moment, taking in my surroundings, the comfortable room with the smell of dust rising faintly from its thick wooden furniture and the sagging, expectant shelves of books.
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