something tired

I'm tired. My head hurts. I sip hot tea to soothe my throat. I listen to weird rock music so as to not cause any more pain with repetitive techno beats. My bare feet touch the smooth carpet on the floor. The window is open and a chilling soft wind finds its way into my room. My eyelashes can barely stay open but the prospect of them shutting seems even more horrible than keeping them awake. My motion is slowed down to almost a still or my mind is rushing past my ability to move. I look sideways; follow a nervous miniature fly on the screen trying to feed on the radiation. I look up at the lamp and see dozens more like it, dead, on the bottom of the light. My hair falls on my forehead and into my eyes, obstructing my field of vision. I don't remove it. Another fly on the screen, or maybe it's the same one? I scratch the back of my head in a tired shrug. I take another sip of the tea, slowly letting it fall down my dry throat and heat my stomach. Within, it will dissolve two aspirins that I consumed before in an effort to alleviate the pain. I’ve shut the TV a while ago when the sound of indistinct infomercials finally reached the limit of being more annoying that the effort it would take to shut off the TV.

I check any ongoing conversations only to find the last one occurred 35 minutes ago and it wasn't very interesting. I wipe sweat from my forehead and in the process remove the hair from my eyes. I can now better see the dead fly on the bottom of the screen and the flickering cursor that awaits input. I wipe the bug with a motion of my finger and clean my finger on the side of my chair. The music stopped. I touch the back of my neck again in an unsuccessful attempt to give myself something resembling a massage. I stare some more into the void trying to get inspiration for my next words. I lean back on my black leather chair and throw my hands in the air and eventually behind my head. I stretch.

A third bug is making its way towards the top of my screen. My eyelashes slowly give way.

The pauses I make between writing each sentence turn longer and longer. For some unexplainable reason, The Girl From Ipanima starts playing. It seems like a much slower and sadder version of the song. Either that or it just seems that way now that I am almost falling asleep as I write. I take another sip of the strawberry and mandarin tea that is getting cold. It has a sour taste reminiscent of the citrus fruit in its origin. I added sugar but not enough to mask the intended taste. Finally I finish the tea, absorbing the lingering aftertaste it left in my mouth. The current song makes a thunder sound as it fades out into silence, and I find myself longing for rain. Another current of cold air brushes my bare feet as I get up, standing on a part of the floor which is not covered by the carpet and touching the cold slick parquet. I push on the power button and proceed to my bed; collapsing there without a thought in my mind, off to never-never-land, gone to rest my head on a soft and pleasant pillow.