I cannot say how many times I’ve locked myself away. I close my doors; I close my eyes. I take a deep breath and never ever let it out. I huddle down deep, somewhere quiet where even I cannot impose. Daydreams of comfort and beauty sustain me to an extent, so I fill my mind with cloth and skin and rhythm. I get lost in the intricacies of fantasy, making it as believable as possible; suspending my disbelief until reality is that which seems false.  I forget myself in the comfort of comforters and sheets, eyes closed against the glare from blinded window panes. Breathing slow, I invest in apathy, amnesia, allegory. My semi-lucid dreaming leaves me hungry, while waking day leaves me weary, but there is no rest here to be had. There is no sustenance here, no substance. There is only wishful thinking and a desire to forget. A lack of peace, but plenty of quiet. Lying in silence, limbs wrapped warm, fetal in pose, I would remain invested in illusion, a figment of my own imagination.


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