The Straight Line

My wandering mind led my feet to accompany it to the bakery. I heard someone call my name from behind the boarded up door, begging to be let out. I broke the wood down and was faced with a man in a gas mask. He heard my gasp and grabbed my hand.

"Sometimes, you have to be shown to believe the lies you hear."

I felt an irresistible fear of the door behind him, and I remembered it from earlier. The gas mask man opened it, and I screamed as white light clouded my vision. I was going to die.

"You'll get out if you've got the gripe. Follow the straight line."

Within a fraction of a second, the ground below me became the ground within that door. It was as if I had been whisked inside without noticing, like being lifted by an otherworldly hand.

I was met with a hallway of doors. Behind some, forests of teal. Behind others, luncheons of pigs. Behind more, men in white coats laughing at my plights for survival. Behind none was the land I called home.

Every now and then, I'll find snippets of my apartment. My refrigerator, a scent of safety. I found my computer.

I am drifting down a hallway with no beginning to escape from and no end in sight.
I am walking the straight line between living a paradox and living insanity.