You are haunted by a persistent melancholy.
You wake up. You wish you were asleep. So you sleep. You dream, sometimes. You wake up again. It’s afternoon. You pick at food your mother left by your door. It’s cold. You sleep again. Day in. Day out. Weeks pass. A month. Year. More. Time means nothing. Clock drones on. Phone rings.
A familiar voice is asking about you. “Hey, Sunny! It’s me….” You barely register the rest. But you know him. If you linger on it you’d miss him, so you don’t.
You sleep. You have everything you need. More. This has been your oasis; it has its own Oasis. Illusion is everything to the starving. You made it this way for a reason. You don’t remember why. You don’t have to. Your friends are here. They don’t say it, because that’d be too much. But they love you. You know they do.
You are melancholy.
Grass grows. Leaves fall. Snow. Snow is nice; no one expects you outside when it’s freezing. In your better life you and your friends kick up snowdrifts and fish knick-knacks through icefloes; you could do it forever, if you wanted. The ocean is limitless.
Cold out. Bed warm. You shiver. You bury yourself in blankets. You try to sleep again.
He doesn’t have a bed; he doesn’t need one. He doesn’t need to sleep, although he lies down a lot anyway. But he has a blanket, sometimes. He has Mewo. That’s warm. His friends smile. That’s warm, too.
You don’t need to be anything.
The story gets longer each time. If it’s practiced again and again and again, it could be perfect. The start is easy, almost flawless. Children play. Trees sway. Everyone is together. It feels okay.
You wake up sometimes, as if from a nightmare. The room is empty. You see her. You shut your eyes again.
Children play. Cattails sway. Everyone is together, almost. It feels okay.
Memory doesn’t just creep in; it rules, here, shaping every choice, every detail. She smiles exactly as she always did. His laughter is gregarious. Every inch of this world is familiar, yet new, because it changes a little sometimes, just to keep it fresh. There’s still more work to be done. The construction stretches further away each visit; maybe it’s limitless.
What is a person but the sum of his experiences. And if nothing happens…