The only time she extracts her mind is when she sleeps. In a dream, she walks into her house - never a home, never her own - and mechanically creeps up the stairs. She doesn't think of slipping, falling, breaking, spilling, or how to clean up the mess if she were to make one - intentionally or not. She merely wishes not to be heard, bothered, or distracted. Stealth as can be, she heads to the unlocked room she calls her own and drops her belongings. All of her possessions are the same. They have a place, they have a time, they have a shape, they have a name... but they are rarely recognized or condoled at all. Much like her mind, the walls that surround her are bleak. There is no decoration. She sees no point. She'll just have to tear it all down soon enough. What's the use in cleaning something if it's just going to get dirty again? she wonders. She still makes her bed every morning.
With an optional sigh, she takes out her laptop and lays herself down. Looking passed the screen toward nothing at all, she habitually checks her e-mail. Regardless of what there is to read, her expression does not change, nor does her heart. Her to-do list is done for the day. Now she can finally live a little. Unfortunately for her, to live is to die - not eternally, but for a good eight hours or so. She closes her eyes to analyze their insides. In practically no time at all, she ventures into an alluring yet dangerous world. A dream within a dream.
This is where I come into the picture.
to be continued...
- Alexander McCurdy
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