Sometimes,

lying here,

I feel like I can open my eyes to yesterday.

Lying in the soft glow of blue and red,

eyes shut against the light from the Exit sign over the door,

and the wireless router next to it,

I feel like I can close my eyes and it'll be three months ago.

It'll be hot,

but cooler then than it is now, nothing like the hot it is now,

and I'll be on the high bed in my old dorm room.

I'll have my eyes closed,

and it'll be one of those nights when I pulled shut the blinds,

and just stared up at the dark ceiling.

I'll shut and open my eyes, and I'll see the elongated streaks of orange light

cast through the window to the wall,

and I'll see that though dark,

the room is gently alight with the fluorescent glow of the hall outside,

seeping through under the door.

And I'll shut and open my eyes and it'll be one year, eight months ago,

and I'll be in my old bedroom,

on that bed that was higher than I wanted it to be,

in that room that was more packed than I could ever make it be.

It'll be one of those nights I was sick,

lying in bed but swimming through reality,

the dull glow of Cardinology in my ears,

a bottle of whiskey somewhere hidden beneath my down blanket with me,

and under my pillow the knife I wish to be brave enough to use.

Don't want to be a robot, it's not worth living if you're a robot, don't want to be a robot

And I'll shut my eyes again and open them to the same room,

how long ago?

more empty than seems should be possible, in comparison.

It'll be late afternoon,

so long ago

but the room will be shrouded in gloom,

the window and drapes pulled shut,

and The Art of Drowning blaring from my speakers.

I'll be on my back on the futon,

staring upward at the ceiling so close at hand,

with my computer and a soda balanced on the arm rest above my head,

open document awaiting more words.

But I won't write, I'll shut my eyes again,

and the next time wake up on the same futon,

with my head at the opposite end,

and water bottles everywhere,

and reality won't be quite as real as it has ever been.

And there I'll stay,

the past journey of three years and eight months

nothing more than a grief-stricken dream.

My waking nightmare isn't that it's all a dream;

it's that I wake up.