3:08 PM

 


What are you trying to write? Eating. Walking. Sleeping. Spending time. Waiting for things to change. How and when will things change?

You read a little. Nor for long, just enough to make you feel less alone. Then you return to panicking.

You wonder if you are trapped in a nightmare. The inability to do anything, the dumbfounding reality, the difficulty to connect with other living subjects—aren’t these all the constitutive elements of a dream? Except, they say, that you can’t write in a dream.

Maybe writing is what you are using to resist the nightmare. Maybe through writing you can escape, like Sophie and Alberto. Then lucidity and control will return.

But what if you never wake up? What if you slowly wither in your velvet fortress?

The white flowers are dying, they see, and the red curtains are staring into you, calling you out: Get ahold of yourself, you amoebic slug! The incandescent sap of loneliness is oozing out of you like tears. Hold it back. Hold it in. Your faltering breaths.

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