Full of Holes

You wake to the shivers of dreaming, cold sweats and stifling, suffocating, scratching sheets.

Torn into reality like paper.

It leaks through the holes like static, influences and misdirects, reality as uncomfortable as the humidity soaking through stifling, suffocating sheets.

Every night is the same, the pressing of skin and fat against white painted plaster for the chill, the sensation so juxtaposed to the heat pressing in on your lungs.

You're trying to teach yourself to dream about the things you enjoy. You try to direct your dreams, write them like a novel, but every night you start at the same place, repeat the same story, and never move pass the introduction of characters that you know deep down in your soul but can't put down on paper.

Paper full of holes.

Your writing angles downward like the shadows casted by your body's distortion. Why can't you sleep? Why can't you write? Why can't you dream about something other than your uncomfortable and stifling, suffocating, scratching reality?