i lie in the dark, staring up at the ceiling through what feels like a layer of film over my eyes. the night is quiet - i know i'm the only one still awake; but i still feel exposed, somehow (what part of me to whom i don't know). i keep thinking there's a cold draft coming in from outside; but i know i never open the windows anymore. i try to write - but the words feel lodged in my mind - my hand aches even before i put pen to paper and the usual click-music of the keyboard sounds distant and muddy. i want to sleep - but darkness won't let me find it; my blanket's stitched from old habits tonight - i wonder whether this might be the reason why some people turn to alcohol. to forget - if for a moment - the crushing weight of being an insignificant, average existence. i briefly wonder if i should try drinking, but i discard the thought - it's not like i'm in the market for yet more self-sabotaging past-times. my body knows too many already. i feel like a thief in the night - only that the only person i'm stealing from is myself and that all i feel is loss. i'm still not quite sure what i'm losing.
but i’ll bundle up in my old blanket and try to figure it out ‘til morning comes. // 28.05.17
