I am exhausted,
Even though I have spent the whole day just sitting through thousands of unread mails. Nothing beats the tiredness that routine brings. It defeats the heavy doses of caffeine running in my blood and the upbeat music ringing from the bar downstairs. Not even the reflection of the outlandish presence in the room is able to keep me from withdrawing from consciousness.
I gather everything, the scattered symbols of shattered past, and stack them away. But I keep them close enough, so that my eyes may unknowingly find their way to them again and rekindle that tiny spark of hope. I cling on to the old remnants to feed the faint yearning for what once has been.
As I turn the bedside lamp off that night, the world doesn't turn black. A strange glow blossoms in the bedside lamp, mixed with the city lights refracting through the windows; it comes from somewhere remote, some place I'll never know of. And it persists even as my eyes slowly droop shut.
A flicker of hope.
YOU ARE READING
We are here now.
Short StoryWe must dream, watch them shatter, fall apart piece by piece, agonizingly slow. We must dream again, before reality becomes a truth we can never wake up from. A parallel and gradually converging story of two different personalities of the same per...
