a short story
Lying in bed, the man was nothing.
His head upon the pillow, arms gripping the blanket, he braced for oblivion. He could still hear the solitude of the lightless world outside his walls. This silence was deafening, deadening to his very soul. Only the feelings from a day of disconnected observations keeps him awake. Yet none of this takes notice in mind. Inside, there was nothing at all taking place; there was hardly any room. The existence itself weighed inside there. Consciousness presented itself within the formless void waiting for an absentee audience; these thoughts weightlessly drifting the mind into corridors unto fathoms of cloudy nothings. The immense pressure was released miraculously, finally, only by the thought of…
Moonlight glided into the room from the blinded window to the east. This was deliberate. The man wanted the sunlight to stream through in the morning when the sun rose. It reminded him of a better day. The unforgettable hope of better days; days worth remembering. It forced upon closed eyes the yearning to look up and out into this new light, as if the only thing capable of pulling the man together at the start of each day was this promise of a new dawn’s warmth.
He would not dream this night, or any other. The thought of this inevitability was discomforting to him. Each night as he laid down to sleep, he knew rest brought nothing with it. Only numb unconsciousness. The very same thing he battled each day.
These nightly reveries garnered for him a darkly conscientious mirror of his own ill-fated life…
Even so, dawn rides in with promise each morning, and he continues to open his eyes to afford such light.
Lying in bed, the man felt something. ~
~ 
Thresholds of Transformation 