Mala Praxis

A glaring fluorescent light addled my senses. I could not perceive my surroundings. Visionless. Frightened. Isolated. An encroaching terror teemed me within my exposed core.
A voice began murmuring without warning. A throng of pharmaceutical elixirs, pitched towards me by this entity. My hope for succor for my ailment permeated the room.
I was not alone. An unsettling figure, upright, unmoving, uncaring, inhumane. A psychiatrist, in a nutshell. A constable of well-being, unassailable in its prescriptions.
My ailment, my disease, my malaise was all but evident: a bundle of tablets and pills were my fix. The contemporary blend between soporific conformity and apathetic accountability disillusioned me.
The instructions were a divine mandate: down the drugs after breakfast. Do not doubt. Do not hesitate. Trust. Obey. They know better.
I departed the barren doctor’s office. My dainty, young hands could not quite maintain the grip of the myriad of modern panaceas in my posession. As I was hauling these present-day cures upon me as I left the building, I found myself at a loss.
Was this my future? A narcotic existence? A soporific fadeaway from the struggles of life?
As I trudged towards home I came across boy by mere coincidence . This lad was not shackled by a prescribed disease, or academic torment. Instead, life brimmed on every expression. On every pore present on his face. On every action he partook. Light dazzling as dawn shone throughout his hazel gaze. A blazing luminary that didn’t addle my senses. I could grasp my surroundings.
My eyesight did not falter. The horror I experienced melted away much like snow in spring. For the first time, I did not feel isolated. No longer was I part of the diseased. A mentally ill creature. I was part of something. Of every little thing. Once and for all, I realised that what afflicted me was not a malady, nor a disorder, but fear.
The fear of living.

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