He kept twisting and turning in his bed. The thought of her gave hive him this painful sensation between his chest. He was in between sweating and feeling cold. It was around 3 am. 'Why am I even alive?' He asked himself. He couldn't understand why it was important to love, important to express his emotions at all. Why couldn't everyone just be happy? Why couldn't he feel her hands underneath the bedsheets he wore? Why was it so important to feel? Why was it important to experience? What was importance after all? And soon the morning skies blushed for him and he frowned upon them.
It was a Wednesday, and to think of sitting in front of the desk and bear those people again just because he had to, wasn't very appetizing. He had dreams of big cars and big houses. He had dreams of a better girl he had fallen for. His dream girl was in every girl he met, a little of her hair in one, the eyes in the other, the voice, the lips, the brains, almost as if his mind was scattered all over in women he met, didn't meet and those that he wished for. The question was about playing with standards of himself. Setting them, breaking them, rising above and falling below. He switched his tap on to wash his face; to wake up to real and tangible reality for that moment to the next and if anyone asked he would say he is happy in life. Such intimate boredom.
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