Scraps of Fiction.

It’s too much of an awful thing to think that no one will see me sitting up, here in darkness, like a criminal forced to ponder his sins, knowing the rest of the world sleeps and won’t notice his longing for repentance. There’s no one to wake to see that I’m sleepless, full of worry, full of ache. No one to see how cluttered this room is in darkness or to notice the smell of decay growing worse from summer heat. For a while, I sit, thinking nothing, chewing the sides of my cheeks, before realizing what I’m merely doing is siting, thinking of how I’d like to think nothing, dismissing moments of peacefulness and chewing skin. This is absurd! But, I can’t sleep. The night is around me and no, I can’t. Or, I won’t. I wonder how I look here, how someone might see me: a shadow within shadows. No, there’s a little light from the moon entering the room. It goes across my skin and adds shape to a shapeless night. When I try to dream up how I might look here, I see a man with burnt shoulders and a gaunt stony head, who appears to be waiting for something or someone who may never show.