Dead, Head, Bed, Meds.
Dead. I’ve been feeling dead lately. Not the dead-and-buried-in the-ground kind, but the rock kind. Like I’ve never even been alive. I’m a ghost of a presence. I actually walk through walls. People don’t really notice. I should probably eat something, but I’m not hungry. I might be tired or I might be asleep.
Head. I exist in my head. A lot goes on up there. Being dead can get stressful. Busy, even. I get new ideas everyday but it’s starting to get crowded. There’s no room for expansion. I can see myself, the little version of me that is really all of me crowded in my head. Every moment getting more and more cramped up there and running out of air. There’s no room to breathe. She’s getting frantic.
Bed. I won’t get out of bed. I won’t get out for light or for food or even to pee. I’m staying here. I’ll stay asleep and even when I wake up I’ll just lie in bed and pretend to be asleep. No one can tell the difference, not even me. Life looks better horizontal anyways.
Meds. Meds are supposed to help. They’re supposed to make me feel better, or maybe they’re just supposed to make me feel alive. Meds to soothe, meds to protect, meds to end the pain. Just put her out of her misery. The whole idea is a cure. A cure for the living, a cure to be dead.
