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Rated: E · Prose · Biographical · #1380668
A drabble about a certain feeling.
There was one of the many things wrong with her, though not wrong enough to fix, that she believed summed up the way she felt. Sometimes when she stood up too quickly or just turned around her vision would black and she'd start to lose consciousness and, though she rarely did, there was always a part of her that wished it. Wished that her downwards descent wouldn't slow and that she would be gone. If that portion of her had it's way she's never wake up at all. The trick to living, she'd decided, was making sure that that part of her brain (mind/soul/being/essence/does anyone really know?) never grew large enough to gain majority. And she was mostly successful. Though every night as she struggled to get to sleep she knew the source of her difficulty was that the sooner she succumbed to Morpheus, the sooner she would awake. Again.
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