Slipping

  My eyes open before I realized they were closed again.  Two years this time.  The windows narrow and the lights dim each time.  I don't know what to fight for anymore.  Hope is hiding behind the moon.  Looking glasses, time travel and that fucking white rabbit all dance around me, yet I reach for nothing. I am not adapting now.  I am disappearing.  Maybe disappearing is the adaptation.  I scream into voids, despite believing I have no right to the things I scream to acquire.  I thought about trying to write my book the other day.  Finally.  The one so many believed I would write. The dreams do not come.  My mind is too preoccupied with my body and the demands it makes of me just to get out of bed.  Whining, simpering.  No, I am not inspirational.  I am not out saving the world.  I am not.