Is it because you are alone under this blanket? Is it because you do not touch your own skin, for your cold fingertips might shock you? Something is steadily slipping by you, the onset of age, the passing of an experience you might miss out on. If only you could be aware of the million opportunities you posses all at once, and take them all, at the same time. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To know you've never made the mistake of choosing the incorrect answer. Yet you cannot, and your beating heart must once again be cajoled into silence.
"Yes, I'm afraid.
Of what? Of myself. Of what tomorrow might bring. Will I be able to cope with the waves of turbulence throwing my world into disarray? I know, I must let go of the old, embrace the new and not heed the conscience that tells me otherwise. But I can no longer pretend to avoid eye contact with society. I can no longer hold a poker face while my friends and family recede into the giant wall of grey behind me"
This music is dulling your senses, and these pictures only make you wistful. Do you want to pervade into to the garish pixels of the computer screen and pull at those faces till they're distorted to the satisfaction of your vanity? Yet you can only sigh and silently curse them under your breath for gifts they were born with, ones which you were never even offered. You wonder if before your before your birth, cosmic beings deliberated upon the exactitude of your appearance, and if so, whether they had a personal vendetta against an unborn child. You chuckle, but not so loudly as to disrupt the unattractive yet peculiarly ambiance elevating sound of snoring. Unfinished conversations pressure you to cease pondering and you wish you had someone to love, right there and then, under a pretentious blanket of real wool, under a pretentious sky made up of allegedly real stars you cannot see. So you turn over to your side and sleep, hoping thoughtless will wake you in the morning.