Eyes, tired and burning, weighted. My eyelids are pulled shut, cemented.
To an observer I know I seem to be sleeping, though uneasy at times. I can hear him enter the room. I feel the cat jump on the bed. I am cognizant of my surroundings.
My eyes refuse to open. They are well and truly exhausted. My mind begins the all too familiar turning and twisting. It touches a memory and pauses to consider the variables, the might of beens, even the changes of breeze. This leaves me unsettled.
Sometimes I try on different decisions. The outcome feels like standing in a dressing room in a department store with a dress I know is too small. It is shocking to see myself in so many mirrors. I don’t remember looking like this. These are all false realities behind closed eyes.
I am compulsive. Within a couple of hours I have roamed the streets of nostalgia, taken detours, built bridges, watched them burn and then tear out my heart out because nothing can change the past.
Stymied by whether it would be better to be medicated to sleep and yet wake tired but oblivious to the turmoil or trudge down this path of melancholic obviously unhealthy fixation.