Walking home, eyes to the ground, noticing for the first time the stains that leaves make on the cement after a storm.
Locking myself in my version of Antigone’s cave, hoping (but only a little) that my fate won’t be so gruesome.
Three day old water slowly swishes down my throat. Semi-suffocating, I imagine myself fully submerged.
Horizontally resting, but finding no rest. My staring eyes are tired, my view of everything is tired.
Hour after hour pass. I wait for them to say something, to do something. But only silence.
My mind like the planets, wandering (as the saying goes), but mostly still, so still.
Wanting to gasp awake, realizing I wasn’t breathing. But I’m conscious.
Ate a bag of potato chips, decided against eating an apple.
Back under the covers, always stay undercover.
My pen unused, my book unopened.
When does it all end?
12 o’clock time.