Everything hurts. I try to breathe but it gets stuck in the fog, in my desperate attempts to remember how to do it. I try to bury myself in work, but bury work in the desk drawer to avoid reminders of my own shortcomings instead. A book manuscript stares at me in horror, but the demons are louder than any of its complaints so I am left to piece together its pleas from my own haunted innards. I go back to bed. Desperately try to remind myself how to know better. They say death by hypothermia can make people feel unexpectedly warm, a brief spell of relief or confusion as the body fires off its last attempts at survival. I know this bed is a virtual roll in the snow. I know the relief of sleep is only waste of a life, but oh, what a blessing is a short moment of respite. If I make myself perfectly still, perhaps this life won't notice me, won't ask things of me I am no longer able to offer it.
I am too soft, and life is too far out of my reach. Everything feels warm now.
I'm starting to forget what I was fighting for.
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