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Rated: 13+ · Essay · Entertainment · #1496617
About a boy, drowsing. Why is he tired? Why is he so....tired...?
His head tipped. What had been a warm, fuzzy darkness and distant noise suddenly swushed back to him, overwhelming him, not unlike the feeling of being pushing face-first into a swimming pool, and getting an eyeful of chlorine. He looked about his room, his eyes adjusting. Oh, he had been sleeping. Sleeping, had he? Really? Sounded unlikely - sounded unlike something he would do. Sleep ismeant for the bed, isit not, or the sofa, the couch, the sitee, the train-home from Dublin, when your head is so full of contentment, excitement and thought that you can bearly refrain from falling into a deep ---

Slumber! There, he'd done it again!

He took to his feet, rubbing his eye with vigour, trying to gouge the sleepiness from it, almost. Get in at his brain. His brain which was cruelly - CRUELLY! - deciding just to ---

switch off, flick. Well, it wasn't really a flick, really, it was more a sort of droop, a drip, then an AAaaaaawwwwwhhhooooohhh, then a crash-tumble when you woke up.

What time was it? 2:20. The most ungodly of hours. Why have such an hour, if they were not going to use it for anything other than slumber? Well, then again, he thought, picking his shirt, there were some people who stayed awake until the sun crested the horizon, partypeople, nightmen and women. Sexy, beautiful people. He was not one of them - he, regrettably, fell victim to the Sandman's seductions.

Perhaps opening a window would clear his head - yes, that was an idea. The mere thought of gushing wind into his room from the chill night sky, like the crash of waves, was enough to rouse him; he went to the window, and heaved it open. Indeed, the night's air cooled him, and his eyes burst open a second, but then sleepiness prevailed. He had better step back, away from the window, lest the daggers of sleep stabbed him, and his drowsy corpse toppled forward, with a plop, out of that window, falling, falling, wafting and falling not unlike a feather, from a goose-feather pillow, on a bed, oh, a bed, how he craved, falling, falling ---

And then he woke up.

What a tiresome, tiresome dream.
© Copyright 2008 Clement Boile (chrismoran at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1496617