Ode To A Weekend Spent In Bed, Listening

Ode To A Weekend Spent In Bed, Listening
The weekend: its where we go to die when the week is too much and days don’t seem to ever begin, they only end over and over again. So instead of fighting we throw our hands in the air and surrender. We crawl into our beds, sorry and alone, but it provides us no warmth. Hiding under the covers no longer gives us the protection it once did. There is no fortress in the solitude, in the dark, there are only ghosts and monsters. And there is nothing we can do about it. They wait there in the shadows, knowing full well that we have no way to defend ourselves from their gnashing teeth, their bloody talons. They wait for us because they are in no hurry. We have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the scary things that surround us. They wait knowing that we will always be here and so will they.

The weekend is where we slow our breathing. Our blood grows cold and still in our veins and nerves cease firing their nervous little messages. We sigh a sad, quiet sigh and the world shrugs, powerless to help. Sit in a chair and cut yourself. Lay in bed and do everything you can to stay awake, to keep away the nightmares you know are coming. Stand there silently, looking out the window, fidgeting with cold and anxiety. There is no freedom in being awake, no rest in being asleep. It is only time. Uncontrollable, uncompromising time. And it is doing everything in its power to kill you, one second at a time.

I found a laser pointer in a box next to my bed. I don’t know where it came from. I certainly never bought it and I’ve never in my life owned a laser pointer. It gives me little comfort here in the dark. It illuminates nothing, merely indicates.

It illuminates nothing, merely indicates.