It is long past night. A prison, in which its captives are suspended by serpentine tendrils, pendulums swinging between wakefulness and sleep, before coming to rest at hypnagogia—the middle, occupied by a sinister mist that sours rationality into insanity, where good thoughts pivot sharply into madness and time is just a word.
It tastes like stale, reused saliva, circulating through the mouth in a bubbling whirl, again, and again, and again, and again. It collects in a frothing pool, swishing past pointed canines and rounded molars, a tired, sticky reminder of consciousness, which lingers like a cold.
Behind hooded lids, the eyes roll mindlessly, doomed to focus on everything and nothing at all. Thoughts become images, images become tangible, the tangible stands at the foot of the bed, unblinking.
The ground slips out from under, and the body shudders, fearing the fall. It is false, a dream? The body cannot tell, and the mind, its only companion, is paralyzed.
The eyes flutter, and the pads of the hands throb, longing for a touch of reality.
Photo Credits: Md Madhi (unsplash)