The writer sits in their treehouse. Borrowed pillows cushion the weight of the day. How am I going to keep this up? They overlook a verdant city. A bright white sun sets above it. Soon it will slip behind the Kilpatrick hills, but not yet. Not until it first burns its round form into a couple of retinas.
The writer blinks and sees several red circles overlap in their vision. They, too, will slip into slumber soon enough. But first, they too must scratch their mark. Time is ticking. They feel it constantly.
I can’t keep doing this. My spirit will break. It won’t, but the writer likes to say it. It reassures them that they are human. They don’t often feel human.
I’ll give up eventually. They are tired. Thoughts like these are summoned like vibrations on a spider’s web. They crawl over the back of their mind. I’ll never finish this book. But if that were true, they would be too ashamed to admit it. So what is it they seek with these words?
The clouds have donned a dusty pink bottom. The treehouse grows dark without the sun. It is time to rest.
Time. The writer has plenty of it. But what if…
Sleep, my dear. Rest your head. There is no need to burn so brightly. After all, who could forget the sun?
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