climb back into yourself

You are a rope ladder floating out in front of you laying on your side in bed trying to sleep. The ladder is red and knotted, twisting in on itself.

Your proprioception is flawed. You are above yourself, looking down, turning slowly and moving from side to side.

You feel the nicotine patch pressing down on the hard mattress into your side and wonder if it is broken, leaking. It is too late to check. What is the lethal dose of nicotine? Does nicotine poisoning cause vertigo?

These thoughts and others swirl in your head in a spiral. You try to see the color of the spiral but it has no color.

"I am going to die," you think to yourself.

You try walking up the red knotted ladder. You climb into yourself and around yourself. The directionless place above you twists and turns. The space goes static like old broken TVs, gray snow. Your spatial awareness evaporates into the static, dissipating like heat waves off an old hot radio.

You realize this is what it means to be alive. Time is a vector, and everyone (everything) is moving at the speed of light. But most of the movement is directed at time, which bares the brunt of its momentum, not speed.

You cave in on yourself and out back into the world. There it is, the place you are trying to go. It is in reach.

Tonight and other nights are all the same from the perspective of a photon. It all coalesces at the same point, the start and end of the universe.

There is nothing there. There is nothing there.

The mattress is not like the rope ladder above you. Climb down. Climb back into yourself. It is time now.

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