Je suis claustrophobe. Les endroits confinés, exigus, étroits, je déteste. Et si j'ai le malheur de me retrouver dans une telle situation, des millions d'angoisses tourmentent mes pauvres nerfs pour ne me laisser aucun repos. Dans mon délire, je me persuade alors que je 'm running out of air and probably die. How many elevators did I have to endure, praying to any god every half floor so they do not stop. How many stairs did I have to climb to save my skin a horrible death. How do I cavers secretly revered for having exercised the worst job in the world.
My bad got worse when, in a burst of cultural fever, we decided my lover and my courage to conquer the peaks of the Duomo of Florence. To access the masterpieces of the Dome, it was then up a narrow spiral staircase, illuminated by tiny miserably meurtrières. Quelques 100 marches plus tard, je commençais vaguement à sentir l'air irrespirable et la panique gagnait un peu plus ma raison, embrumant mon cerveau de ses idées folles. Impossible de redescendre, l'escalier était trop étroit et des connards de touristes surexcités par les merveilles de la Renaissance nous suivaient pas à pas. Plus je montais et plus j'avais l'étrange impression de m'enfoncer dans ce qui allait être mon ultime tombeau. Les larmes ne tardèrent pas à polluer ma vision et je commençais à suffoquer nerveusement, haletant comme un sale petit chien. Mon homme essaya tant bien que mal de me calmer, mais je sentais qu'il n'en menait pas large non plus.
Arrivée 463ième the steps of the fucking stairs, in this fucking Dome Dome in this fabulous, I thought I could finally get my breath, but my hope was vain. Tourists shot dead that we could admire the Dome only through a long row of windows located envrion 1.50 m from the wall. On the coffin spiral, it would eventually buried alive. And ceiling of the Dome could well be painted by Basquiat, Warhol Boticcelli, I would not have seen the difference and I had one thing in mind: to get faster to find the open air, land and clear my respiratory channels of this hell claustrophobique.Nous have pushed the tourists - still cons (god I hate them) and admiring what could be called a masterpiece - to clear a path to the exit stairs that was identical to the first . It is with a heavy heart and the lust for life that we went down without looking back.
I wonder why some museums take the time to issue warnings meant to protect the morals of the younger, while others are not fucking write "WARNING 463 IN MARKETS LIKE AN ESCALATOR TOMB, claustrophobia DESIST ".
If you want to experience a quasi-similar, read As a tomb of Peter James (the title has already said it all). The story of a poor guy who finds himself trapped in a coffin after the joke (doubtful) of his buddies for his bachelor party boy. Only here, friends, humor, stripper, have all perished in a car accident and our poor will have his bachelor bachelor boy turn in funeral itself. To read in a cellar to enjoy the atmosphere.
I also recommend walled The French master of horror Serge Brussolo . It is in this book, crazy, the tortured, the walls that close to never reopen and a story much more original than the title lets hear it. A book terribly scary, very addictive, with a masterful and tragic end.
0 comments:
Post a Comment