Not having slept for quite a while means one thing, among others, for sure. That one has a high, a slippery tenuous high, but a high nevertheless…

When he picks up a glass of water he can feel it slip through his hands. He grasps it tighter and gulps the water down, to feel it slide down his parched throat. When he reclines on the couch, he can almost feel his body slip out of its mortal senses. A certain rubbery feeling at his guts, a lethargy at any entertaining any thought. A wistful denial of his waking existence and a firm refusal of quiescence. On guiding the clockwork movement of daily rituals, he feels time slip out through fingers like dust. He doesn’t bother to pick up the pieces.

A throbbing sensation of the head that reminds him of the slimy matter within that’s waiting to explode. A heaviness of the eyelids that is lurking to kidnap him to a land of a different sun. An indifferent slippery gaze, a steely resolve of not blinking at the television that airs some images to which he can’t fix any notion. He stares on.

There is no one around. No one to shake off his waking slumber. No one to disturb his meditations on the infinitum.  A waking ghost. A determined slippery waking ghost!

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