three days into “november, national writing month” and my whole post-a-day goal, and I had written not a word. At one point, that was a goal.
Lying on my stomach, swallowing. My throat itches in such a way it that it feels incredibly dry. Air stings the back of it and my pulsating head reminds me to drink tea. Shoulders, slouched over a pillow and my feet resting against the headboard of my bed. The thoughts remind me of reading about Pippi Longstalking, in the fifth grade – she was a girl who insisted on sleeping “backwards.” My roommate turned over in a restless manner. She’s asleep and here I am, typing.
Hesitating, I roll out of bed, and turn off the lights. The rims of my tea-filled mason jar touch my dry lips. Sipping the slowly cooling tea, I return to my nest of all comfort. The fortress that it is (on most days anyways) my bed. Squeezing my eyes shut, the slight purr of cars and the traffic of the near-by road is almost as soothing as the ocean. It’s a sound usually unheard unless you focus on it.
I continue to type.
Exhaustion flooded my body, the realization that I was underprepared for the week to begin and so ready for a weekend where I wasn’t committed to being somewhere or doing something. I could feel my mind race, recapping this past weekend.
A fire alarm screams in the distance, startled I readjust my limp body over the fluffy comforter and pillows. I feel my eyelids fall heavily shut. The fire alarm continues to blair, increasingly loud. Brakes screech and the gentle purr of cars is interrupted. There is no part of me that moves, or twitches. No sign of discontent. Sleep was beautiful, my fortress of a bed was comfortable. For as I knew it, the world was silent.