OK, that's probably crap, but I gotta write crap. Perhaps that's what I've been doing all along. Yes, I hear those violins too, they've been playing incessantly, night and day. They get into my dreams when I sleep, and push them around. Dreaming under duress is doubly maddening; your dreams start bombing your sleep, and your waking hours become war-torn ruins. All that works when awake is your body, and it assumes control in the power vacuum. You get hungry, and you drink chai. You get sleepy, and you crave an apple. You feel sticky, and you brush your teeth. You run yourself ragged, surfing the TV channels. By sheer chance you make it to the grocery store because you're hungry, way past lunchtime, and return with bags full of all you'll need to cook a feel-good dinner.
Comical? Sure. You have to laugh, but you don't wanna. You're of course programmed to find prefabricated food that compensates for its unhealthiness by causing your wallet to lose weight.
You feel relief over getting through half of the damn afternoon before the thinking connections begin to get restored. As soon as they're fully restored, you realize that you've squandered half the day. The adrenaline is still depleted, so you try rolling the rock up the mountain again, hoping that all the unhealthy stuff you just consumed will at least give you some energy to make it budge. You can never tell how far you'll get on any given day, so you tell yourself that it's good to be surprised.
At some point you stop, for no apparent reason, and begin cooking dinner. The rock rolls back down, but you don't care, because you're making dinner, which is without doubt a good thing. Then you eat the dinner, and you make believe that it was all worth it. This takes a good deal of imagination, the claim of which of you need to validate at every opportunity. You come through, but put off going to bed as much as you can, in order to postpone the dream bombardment that you know awaits you behind your shut eyes.
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