How long had he been awake?
Watching the ceiling fan. Move. Around and around. The whirling motion put him into a daze as the thoughts poured out of his head. It was strange – this dream. He knew that he was himself and yet, he embodied someone completely different. He looked in the mirror and saw a stranger with his eyes. He no longer knew what to think as his identity dissolved over a matter of time like water running down from a tap. Once it was lost, it would be hard to restore.
What was his name, again?
There was a fog that was settling in, it’s ominous edges crawling at the tethered strands of memories that kept him in tact. He saw the pearlescent vehicles. He witnessed the edges of the pavement blur from the driver’s seat. He saw her auburn hair floating in the wind as she giggled and shrieked for him to stop.
Who was she? Why did he feel a rush of nostalgia and pain strike his heart when he saw her?
Her.
His intuition told him she was more than just a normal beauty. Her smile lifted his spirits beyond ways he himself couldn’t comprehend. Her eyes were beset with such kindness that he never wanted to look away. His gaze never drifting from her form whenever she appeared to him like a prophet. An angel. He wanted to unravel her mysteries and why she always haunted his vision. Day and night.
He needed to see her.
…
He sat up from the bed where he was previously on his back. His impression, the contours of his body, stuck within the folds of linen and cotton that sheeted area of repose. He must have been starring at the fan all day. It took a lot of effort to move. He felt his energy running low constantly as if he were being lulled to sleep. He didn’t understand the way this dream world ran. He used to be active. Now, he’s simply restless.
Dragging one foot in front of the other, he brought himself to the kitchen sink. Passing by he saw pictures of strangers posing with his body. Who were those people? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember taking any of them. Not a single one. It would’ve set a shiver down his back to know that he might be living with strangers, but his apathy ran stronger. Part of him didn’t care. All he wanted was to wake up – to get away from this warped reality and be back to his former self. Someone who was strong and self-sufficient.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Although his throat was parched dry, he could hardly feel relief, if he could feel anything at all. Everything that used to paint his world in a spectrum of colours were dulled to grey. He felt caged, trapped inside his own mind, unable to interact with the world around him. He tried to pull himself out of it once. He wanted to yell at the mirror. However, nothing came out despite his neck veins protruding outwards and his skin flushing bright red. He was so frustrated that he punched the glass.
Blood red.
Shards stuck on his fist. And still. No sensations.
He sat himself in front of the living room, choosing a different place to lounge and rot, and used the clicker to switch between channels. New, sitcoms, advertisements. Nothing was particularly interesting. All he needed was noise. Background noise. Something that told him otherwise that he wasn’t alone. Pushing the coffee table aside, he brought himself onto the floor.
One. Two. Three.
He counted in sequence in his head as he began to complete push ups. He didn’t want to succumb to the emptiness so he busied himself with distraction. This new body was weak, but he made it his mission to foster it’s potential for strength. He used to be able to look after himself. In fact, something told him that he was used to the spotlight. That he thrived on the attention he got. But look at him now. Aside from the mornings when he would pick up the mail and his neighbours would give him glares for his new demeanor, he didn’t interact with anyone.
This had to change.
He needed to get back on track.
Everyday he ran. It cleared his head from the fog. It made him feel invigorated and in control. He even stopped by the barbers once and got his hair cut and dye back to the way he knew it from before. Blonde. He threw away the old baggy shirts from the closet and replaced it with better fitting ones. He at least had to make himself presentable. If there was one thing he know absolutely about himself, he knew that he wasn’t built to quit.
He couldn’t remember backing down from anything.
Ever.
As he laced his shoes to run the next morning, he was caught by surprise. There was a pounding, scratching sound at his door. What the hell? He was just about to recall this surging feeling of annoyance, perhaps even rage, when he went to open it. Who, or rather what, can be making so much noise? He opened the door to put a stop in it once and for all.
Idea
Watching the ceiling fan. Move. Around and around. The whirling motion put him into a daze as the thoughts poured out of his head. It was strange – this dream. He knew that he was himself and yet, he embodied someone completely different. He looked in the mirror and saw a stranger with his eyes. He no longer knew what to think as his identity dissolved over a matter of time like water running down from a tap. Once it was lost, it would be hard to restore.
What was his name, again?
There was a fog that was settling in, it’s ominous edges crawling at the tethered strands of memories that kept him in tact. He saw the pearlescent vehicles. He witnessed the edges of the pavement blur from the driver’s seat. He saw her auburn hair floating in the wind as she giggled and shrieked for him to stop.
Who was she? Why did he feel a rush of nostalgia and pain strike his heart when he saw her?
Her.
His intuition told him she was more than just a normal beauty. Her smile lifted his spirits beyond ways he himself couldn’t comprehend. Her eyes were beset with such kindness that he never wanted to look away. His gaze never drifting from her form whenever she appeared to him like a prophet. An angel. He wanted to unravel her mysteries and why she always haunted his vision. Day and night.
He needed to see her.
…
He sat up from the bed where he was previously on his back. His impression, the contours of his body, stuck within the folds of linen and cotton that sheeted area of repose. He must have been starring at the fan all day. It took a lot of effort to move. He felt his energy running low constantly as if he were being lulled to sleep. He didn’t understand the way this dream world ran. He used to be active. Now, he’s simply restless.
Dragging one foot in front of the other, he brought himself to the kitchen sink. Passing by he saw pictures of strangers posing with his body. Who were those people? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember taking any of them. Not a single one. It would’ve set a shiver down his back to know that he might be living with strangers, but his apathy ran stronger. Part of him didn’t care. All he wanted was to wake up – to get away from this warped reality and be back to his former self. Someone who was strong and self-sufficient.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Although his throat was parched dry, he could hardly feel relief, if he could feel anything at all. Everything that used to paint his world in a spectrum of colours were dulled to grey. He felt caged, trapped inside his own mind, unable to interact with the world around him. He tried to pull himself out of it once. He wanted to yell at the mirror. However, nothing came out despite his neck veins protruding outwards and his skin flushing bright red. He was so frustrated that he punched the glass.
Blood red.
Shards stuck on his fist. And still. No sensations.
He sat himself in front of the living room, choosing a different place to lounge and rot, and used the clicker to switch between channels. New, sitcoms, advertisements. Nothing was particularly interesting. All he needed was noise. Background noise. Something that told him otherwise that he wasn’t alone. Pushing the coffee table aside, he brought himself onto the floor.
One. Two. Three.
He counted in sequence in his head as he began to complete push ups. He didn’t want to succumb to the emptiness so he busied himself with distraction. This new body was weak, but he made it his mission to foster it’s potential for strength. He used to be able to look after himself. In fact, something told him that he was used to the spotlight. That he thrived on the attention he got. But look at him now. Aside from the mornings when he would pick up the mail and his neighbours would give him glares for his new demeanor, he didn’t interact with anyone.
This had to change.
He needed to get back on track.
Everyday he ran. It cleared his head from the fog. It made him feel invigorated and in control. He even stopped by the barbers once and got his hair cut and dye back to the way he knew it from before. Blonde. He threw away the old baggy shirts from the closet and replaced it with better fitting ones. He at least had to make himself presentable. If there was one thing he know absolutely about himself, he knew that he wasn’t built to quit.
He couldn’t remember backing down from anything.
Ever.
As he laced his shoes to run the next morning, he was caught by surprise. There was a pounding, scratching sound at his door. What the hell? He was just about to recall this surging feeling of annoyance, perhaps even rage, when he went to open it. Who, or rather what, can be making so much noise? He opened the door to put a stop in it once and for all.
Idea
Last edited: