And he rolls over in bed, away from the light of his computer screen. He's afraid of accidentally rolling over his computer in the middle of the night, but not worried enough to do anything about it. The computer is at the edge of the bed playing youtube movie reviews. It helps him fall asleep. Though as much as he wants to lie and listen to the video, he's cold really very cold. So he pulls the cover over his head, and now he can't hear the video as well. And all remanent of light from the street lamps outside has been blocked out. The cold is largely due to the window being open, but he's not going to close it. It makes him feel more connected to the world. The cold air a pleasant reminder that he exists. Only fully feeling people can recognize that cold air can be nostalgic especially at night just an arms length away from the streetlight's gleam. He shoves his hand under his pillow and closes his eyes. The murmur of the youtube video lulling him to sleep. But as he thinks more about this, about existing, he grows more panicked. The wind is usually calming, but sometimes it has the opposite effect. He thinks about all the stupid things he did, said, never said, never did. He shutters as he recalls the way he tried so hard to not be noticed, and yet he knows they saw him anyway. Everyone saw him. They were all watching closely as he made a fool of himself. Sure, they have probably forgotten by now, but how stupid do you have to be to think no one would see you? How many times had he tried and failed miserably? Academically, musically, socially, he has failed in every way he knows how. It hurts. It stings. Comebacks come to him to late. Conversations should have been played out differently, all of them, should have been different. He should have done things differently. It has only been 16 years, but he wishes he could start over. Try again. He wants to be different, wants to not exist like this, in this form, exist. he wants to not exist. It's really cold now. Ridiculous. Why would anyone choose to sleep in the cold? Dumb. He gets up and closes the window. In the middle of the night, there are still people walking around out there in the real world. He wishes he could be like them, with somewhere to be. Instead, he lies back down and pulls out his phone. No texts, as usual. No e-mails, typical. No notifications, as expected. The time is 1:26am. He unlocks his phone and stares at it for a moment. The blue green gradient background is so cliche he thinks it says nothing about him. As if the phone did not even belong to him, as if he didn't even exist. He swipes to a new screen and clicks on the only game he has, Solitaire. Boring, boilerplate, void of himself, prosaic. He plays until he gets stuck and restarts the game and plays again until he gets stuck and restarts the game and plays again until he gets stuck and restarts the game and plays...
He is so frustrated. Bored. Of existing for no reason other than to be angry at himself for existing the way he does. He goes to the Google app and scrolls through news feed. Boring stuff. He goes to the Youtube app and scrolls through his recommendations and the rest is routine. It's lame at first, but if you have time to dig and find the real meaningful stuff than you have too much time on your hands. Which is what he has. Clearly he's not going to sleep any time soon, so there he is Trying to find the real people, or the people who act real, or the people you can pretend are real in your head. Something real must come from this. Please. Then it's great and he feels connected to something. Everything is moving in one undeniable direction, everything must move in that direction it's the only way out. It takes some convincing, but then it's all uphill. Even though he knows there it's no use, he knows it won't help because it never does. But here he goes.Then he realizes, again, that it has ended and. Boredom has struck. And then it's over and you're left with yourself. You're stuck with yourself. Sad. Still here, in the same bed. Same hands, same brain. Everyone is gone, there were never really here anyway. You're alone. It is 3am now. When will time run out? The Youtube app is still open and he doesn't know how to feel. He wants to teleport into the screen and disappear from here. He doesn't want to exist right here. If only someone else could fill in for him. His shift should have ended months ago. He closes the Youtube app because what else is there to do? The movie review video ended many minutes ago. And he lies there staring into himself. His eyeballs fall into his head and he finally gets to see the disheveled machine that made this all possible. It's disgusting. But he gets closer to in because it's of his own. And he touches the squishy pale coiling layers of his own brain and it hurts. It's painful to touch your own brain, and it's cold. He gives himself a headache. He looks right through his own empty eye sockets into his abysmal room. They're letting in a breeze: this warm blooded creature is so cold inside. So he climbs up his brain, and every step hurts.Tugging on the wrinkles to get himself to the very top. And he lies down and snuggles up underneath a think wet fold. It's warmer here, but he still feels like he's about to cry. But he can't cry because his brain can't take much more moisture. The sponge can only hold so much. Sleep usually warms the brain with possibilities normally unavailable to this body. The place will become a sauna with fantasy activity and, during deep sleep, will only just avoid melting the brain. But it will dry with sleep.
Let's do something correctly for once and sleep. Do not cry for nothing, sleep to get rid of everything. One day he will no longer exist. This thought keeps him lulls him to slumber
and off he goes.
