#94

If one is wise to the inner workings of the human mind, the abstract emotions can be a fertile place of self-discovery. Those inner thoughts and fears and feelings, which can only be felt, are able to shed light on our very souls. Humiliation is one such emotion (and one of which I am certainly no stranger to). My nightmare/wet dream of Saturday night was just the latest example in a lifetime of such ignominy. But looking past that, probing deeper, it was as if there was a truth to be had somewhere within it, as though it was directing my attention towards my real fears and desires -  both of which are just as scary as the other. Through that dream I have finally been able to confront certain realities. The bizarre re-appearance of the Miracle chair of St. Mary's is one such thing.

Let us not forget, I was actually there, staring up with the rest of the Tombola enthusiasts when the chair was first discovered perched up on top of the church. That freaked me out for weeks. And now it is here, in the apartment I share with the man I suspect of having put it there in the first place! The more I think of that the crazier it all seems, and if I think about it too much, then conspiracy theories once again abound, like:

How did John slide so comfortably into his new wheelchair and instinctively start using the controls and brake system?
How was he so competent a driver that the hospital even scrapped his one day handling course and gave him a 'Pedestrian Friendly Driver' certificate?
How did he so adeptly take out three OAPs on the ride home? How???

And the questions go on and on and on, though of course, without any answers.

The actual chair itself, well, I hate it. I know one cannot 'hate' a chair, but this one is very different. It's as if it has it's own personality, even holds some influence over the person sitting in it. Sometimes I even wonder if it's John powering the chair or the chair powering him? There is something about John in that thing which wasn't there when he was manual. Also there is the whirring noise it makes. The apartment now has this almost constant motorised sound running through it, and as it gets nearer I know that something horrible is going to happen. Whether it's an accusation, a vulgar question, an insult, or a cigarette butt flicked my way, there's always something and it's very rarely pleasant. Maybe though I am judging the chair through association? I hope not though, because in that instance what I'm really saying doesn't even bear thinking about.