It’s so much easier to just stay inside. It’s warm in here and the air is still. Outside the wind is cold and it’s too much. Too much muchness. I like the walls. I like how they shelter and protect and keep the muchness away from me. I can sleep inside.
But then, I think, maybe it’s too still. Maybe it’s too warm. The walls feel smothering and overbearing and I can’t breathe. The air is outside and I’m in here and here is crushing me.
There’s nowhere to go. Outside is too much, inside is not enough. I can’t sleep out there but I can’t breathe in here. There’s nowhere to go.
I sleep and suffocate, then breathe in my insomnia. There’s no in between.