"12:17," says the clock, "when will you go to bed?" I continue typing. "Soon," I say, "when I must." The clock looks at me, worried. "It's now 12:20, now 12:21, I'll tick on for eternity, but you must stop at some point." I'm too stubborn to stop. "I'm fine," I say.
"But you're wilting, and you're still a sprout, are you not tired?"
"Of course I'm tired, love." I place the bedsheets on my roots and place my computer in front of me. "But the daylight is more draining." My leaves curve and dance around my branches. "I'm tired, love. I'm tired of pretending. In the night, it's too dark for anyone to see you, so there's no one to pretend for."
YOU ARE READING
journal.1
No Ficciónjust my thoughts. trying to seem a little more poetic than usual.
