11.14b

I have to wake up in five and a half hours to ride with my sister-in-law back to school to get my car so I can drive back home to take the dog to an appointment at the vet. I know this, and yet my subconscious will not allow me to be satisfied. Maybe it's the excedrin I took late in the morning and the residual caffeine kick. Maybe it's the twelve hours of sleep I got last night. Maybe it's the sickness still raking its way through my bones. I don't know. I can't be satisfied.

I'm a parody of a man in torment. I have nothing to be sad about, but I'm crying. I keep opening my eyes and expecting something around me to be different. The dark room does not oblige. I'm breathing in short, panicked breaths, but there's nothing to run from. There's no utility to any of it. I'm living it, so I can't doubt it, but it's certainly not connected to any shred of the reality around me.

I'm going to close this laptop screen and set it aside again. Within minutes, I guarantee I will feel the lame panic of an invalid trapped between sleeping and waking. I will return to the twilight realm of dissatisfaction. And what's worse: that I want to fall asleep but can't, or that I could fall asleep, but won't? I'm not sure either is true.

Begone.
To darkness with you, laptop.
Sleep fitfully, if at all, and see how it treats you. I know I'll be living it until the morning.