It was raining stars at my grandmother's house, on 12:29 am. I was inside that time, typing away words without any clue what meaning they might define themselves into.
My fingers float over the keyboard as my body floats over my bed. I feel lighter, and I don't know why it felt that way. It just did, I guess—who am I to know what I feel most of the time?
It was a bed on the floor, in the living room spat with nothing but white on its walls. Blue curtains sway as commanded by the fan directed to my brother on the sofa, eyes on his phone. I see my dad's the same too, as ironic as that just sounded to me.
It looks like he was talking to me. I could only assume he's telling me to sleep—emphasis on assume though—I want to tell him I've been sleeping like a baby for the past few hours. He won't believe me when I'll tell him that, though.
The weight on my eyes feels heavier, and the clock hands feel heavier on my back too. It's 12:42, but my fingers continue sliding through the keyboard.
I feel like the stars are watching me. They heard my brother laugh just now at 12:43—how nosy of them it might seem, though I believe they'll think I'm the same. They'll feel like I was watching them through these thick paper ceilings above me.
It's sickening—this comforting feeling of the drowsy dread drunken inside of me—and it sucks how much it feels great to suffocate in its cage. I do not retort nor reply with rage; just with a nod, acknowledging its written page on my book in which I believe I have no say in its authorship.
My brother to my right, my demons everywhere—my brother sleeps and my demons stare, and I do nothing about it. I got used to seeing, hearing, and feeling them around me anywhere and everywhere I go; though, I'll probably never get used to the feeling itself: the feeling of knowing they'll most likely never leave my side.
I find it sickening how much I find comfort in my own self-destruction. I indulge myself in far too many meaningless things; I can only assume—emphasis on assume though—that I indulge in them to bring at least a little smile on my face. These actions are what brings me to my inevitable bursts, my outbreaks, and my crashes and burns, but I let them happen not because of any reason—it's simply a just because.
Maybe that's why the stars are watching me—to monitor my destruction. They choose not to guide me, but to observe me; for they're just stars and I believe they are incapable of choosing whichever galaxy they are charted to—much like me, much like us—so they observe as much as they can on the abyss that surrounds them: the abyss that observes them right back.
My spine is crushed to smithereens by the pressure I feel on my back. My brother snores away in his sleep, unmindful and unaware of this comforting suffering I have, again, surrendered myself to. My lungs, gripped by the fingers of my own unsteady breathing, are aware of the eyes anywhere and everywhere I go. They laugh at me, for I am quick to label them as my demons. They laugh with me, for they have been doing the same.
The fan is facing both me and my brother, employing energetic gusts of wind to our direction. My hair sways at its command, and it seems my body follows as well: my fingers fluttering over the keyboard, my feet bound to the bed yet feeling lighter than ever, and my stomach empty yet full.
It was raining stars at my grandmother's house, on 1:00 am. I was inside that time, typing away words without any clue what meaning they might define themselves into.