There are clouds everywhere. Encircling my body. But not the soft, fluffy kind that bring comfort. The oozy kind that drip despair.
I just want to curl up with these clouds and let them take over, but Something inside tells me not to. I want to punch that damn Something in the face.
Shit. Is this really happening?
The Something throws some pills at me and I take them, must take them, to maybe make the clouds go away. Do I really want the clouds to go away? Their dampness provides some level of comfort — they know that no one will expect anything from me if they stay.
I try to wrap myself up in them, to accept what is happened, but the Something makes me fight back. The last bit of hope that maybe I won’t fall too hard this time. The Something is stronger this time than the last.
Why is it so hard to give in?
There are children playing and birds chirping and all that other stereotypical shit you’d expect on a nice, happy day. Outside. Inside there are storms brewing and monsters stirring and whatever stereotypical shit you’d expect on a rainy, dark day. There are two me’s.
The clouds tell me to squeeze the life out of the stereotypical happiness; the Something tells me to soak it up before the clouds win. I can’t decide.
Shit. This really is happening.
Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and the clouds will be gone and the Something will have no need to be here anymore. Maybe I will wake and the Something will have vanished and the clouds will be wrapping me in an ever-dimming cocoon. Sleep, they’ll snarl. Live, the Something will whisper.
Can’t I do both? Can’t I live in my cocoon? I know I can’t. I know it will be horrible and the clouds are not my friends and the Something is.
But I just want to give in.
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