Sunlight pierces through the cream colored curtains, and for several minutes, I lose myself in memories I cannot grasp, and I wonder what happened this time in my dreams, because, lately, they’re more active, more real than my life.
I’m conscious.
Testing. Testing.
I’m back in this world. Here, I feel exhausted.
Resting is strenuous not unlike opening my eyes, and touching the closest surfaces to comfort myself with the idea that my surroundings are solid. This fact repeats itself no matter where I go.
Then, I cover myself once again, warm bed sheets asphyxiating me, hiding me from another day. I would like to forget I woke up, but the television is on, and it’s deafening like everything else around me.
Throughout the years, I have tried to extol contradictions and their limpid vagueness. However, my imagination continues interrupting me with its congruous chaos, and transformations of mere dreams into tangible forms, which in their entirety tell me that extolling is banal, that communicating with any entity is nonsense.
The “effluvia of my carcass” is back in this world.
What am I doing here?
Testing. Testing.
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