Though on the horizon, tomorrow is never. Monochromatic shades of moonlight pierce the window of a slanted ceiling overhead. Outlines of the room persevere against the colorless push of night into day. Nora lies somewhere between, her body rounding the edge of a swirling landscape of blankets, pillows, and sheets. Stranded on the shores of consciousness, her state is a matrimony of asleep and awake. Waves recede and her thinking becomes unmediated. She feels, somehow, less alone.
Crashing down from far away, “The voiceless contemplate the prospect of what their voice may one day sound like.” “So much time wasted thinking about what it means to think rather than to engage in the activity itself.” “The recursion spelled out so clearly, thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking…” “One could lose themselves in such a loop for who knows how many years?” “But would they be able to tell?” “The real question being whether they would even want to know?” They call asking for her to let go.
Her eyes open and she finds herself staring up at a window. There is a great comfort to be had in these pauses of consequence. Whether she returned to sleep now or later, there would be no difference. Five minutes of awareness would be compensated in the years of dreams to come. Arms and legs blooming, she stretches towards the corners of the bed. She feels at home.
“Would you?” Faded conversations from days past mesh and coil like ivy along her internal narrative. One moment she is embracing how soft her bedding feels, the next disembodied voices sputter like contorted voices grinding against the static of a poor radio signal. Nevertheless, she thinks she would.
Still holding. A consuming bundle of vertexes and apexes upon a mountainside wrap into a cerebral fold; her mind rolls back and the rip current pulls her under. Her thoughts drown in the voices from before and she ceases to remember herself. She lets go.