Heat settles over her supine form with discomforting misery, like a quilt she can’t get rid of no matter how hard she kicks her legs. It follows her, like a pressing shadow with each frustrated toss and turn, refusing to be ignored. The open window invites a cool breeze that never comes and she envies its stillness, because counting sheep doesn’t silence the eerie humming in her head.
It’s as if she’s fettered to this darkness, merged with the heavy languor of her thoughts. And her familiarity with the twisted corridors of her mind turns into a clumsy rediscovery of its blueprint. New thoughts emerge, like chimeras no longer hidden within cryptic corners. But she isn’t fascinated by their presence nor curious to understand what they are. Her breath shallows at the thought that her mind isn’t hers anymore. That the things she held onto were only illusory comforts, vulnerable to being devoured by the monsters in her head.
Nomad Writer 
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