Martyrs of course to the freedom that I shall provide

The Knife plays through my headphones, and I sit and contemplate the miracle of fantasy. What would I do without a break from reality, without a snare roll shattering the uniformity, the conformity of my day to day life?

The escapes offered me take many forms, but by far the most dangerous of them is the ability to disconnect. To turn off everything inside, to ride on autopilot, to run from despondence and into the arms of falsehood. Sure we all do this once in a while, but soon the behaviour itself more closely mirrors any other addiction than you would have thought possible. And you find yourself unable to help it.

With a bored little smirk you pretend to your neighbors, and then your acquaintances, perhaps a friend or two. And before you know it you are so out of touch with what you're really feeling, that your loved ones are treated with the same empty-smile indifference. Where does it end?

If you can run away from your own need to mute the colours of the earth, and face the sometimes unpleasant reality that life can really get to you, then perhaps you are saved. But the alternative can seem both appealing and inherently terrifying. To completely repress sincerity in an attempt to protect yourself from the emotional knicks and scrapes of day-to-day existence. Until eventually you find yourself spacing out when someone says "I love you", not quite hearing how a loved one's day went, looking past their eyes into an infinity of numbness. Eventually sobbing nervously when you accidentally misplace something. Having microscopic breakdowns in elevators, and finally, being taken aback by the genuine, the sincere and the down-to-earth.