I’m sick, and I don’t want to do anything. Here is a short narrative.
Now go away.
Closing the door behind me, I step out into the cold night. The concrete steps leading down into the driveway are like blocks of ice beneath me as I settle down. The street is quiet, and no one can see me.
Sweating profusely, I sit in the wintry darkness trying to fill my lungs with air. The biting wind pierces my pajamas. Rubbing my temples, I wrestle with my troubled thoughts.
The morning dawns in a dreamless haze, reality smothered in the obfuscating clouds of my sleepless mind. The world reasserts itself as the sun rises in the crystal clear sky; my mind drunk without wine.
“It’s getting too hard to breath,” I say to myself.
I know not if I’m waking or sleeping, or if reality is not the dream: Hidden in the receding shadows I see the dark figures retreating. The day comes, and I return to my house, ready to sleep.