My nation of Prozac

In the mirror, a face that doesn't quite belong to me. I don't feel like it's mine. I look at it and think, maybe it's someone else's reflection, someone else's skin, accidentally thrown over me. Beauty? I don't know what that means. Sometimes I think my body isn't me. It's like a cage I've been placed in by accident. I move, I smile, I respond to people, but inside I remain silent, echoing every sound. I look at the street. People walk quickly, as if they know where they're going. I don't know. My “where” is always inside. My longing takes the shape of Britain as seen by an impoverished worker somewhere on a deserted country road. Political posters dampened by endless rain, a country built on a foundation of ashes of burnt hopes and rage.
It is from here, from this roadside, that I proclaim my version of reality. My Britain is not a gilded palace, but the concrete walls of pubs and endless fields under which lie buried deposits of coal and the unfulfilled dreams of miners. It is a country that still oozes nicotine and longing for what could have been but never was. I accept this longing as a given.