a futile tribulation from a fear of transience
THE TEMPERATURE IS negative eight degrees. I lay wistfully trapped upon a conservatively sheeted chaise within the frozen tundral constraint of four relatively blank walls. I have resided here in this particular session for the last twenty-six hours, thirteen of which have been waking. I continue to shirk all possibility, because even in this small room there are too many. I cannot sleep because well, I am quite too cold. My insomnia is not only derived from the aforementioned frigidness, but such in accordance with the accumulative apprehension that bares alongside the previously acknowledged copious gathering of potential circumstances. Overwhelmed by choice, I opt for nothingness. I obstinately rest in a natural state of residuality. The nullity of the time spent during the conscious hours continue to present a longing sensation for something to do. By now, it is too late. The lack of fruitfulness upon the waking stretch mounts onto the day and steadily proliferates until reaching a stifling crescendo thirteen hours later.
I would read a book, but even within this small room there are too many and I wouldn't know where to begin. Had I made a choice, I would find myself wondering if this was the book that I should be reading right now. I would find it difficult to fixate upon the choice I had made for I could not help but ponder upon what wonders may be locked inside any of the other faux-leather-binded word collections available to my fingertips. Not to mention I would find that the hypnagogic state which I currently carry could not be capable of clinging upon to intellectual threads, and that I would be better off waiting until tomorrow. I could find something to eat, but I'm not sure that my taste buds would find anything enjoyable here because really there isn't much food within this small room. Even if I had found something to eat, I would find myself regretful for I really should not have anything so late. No sense in eating now, I would be better off waiting until the morning.
. . . Eventually I surrender to the mental formulations.
A sudden mist of languor slowly begins to perpetuate itself into my mind. I began to draw a picture. Not on paper, because I did not have any. With a certain stature of haziness I hastily recognize that it may be beneficial to abandon the rumination, I would be much better off doing my best to just go to sleep.
end.
--ryan timms
january. sixteen . twenty-twenty-two