NEW WRITING: restless reality.

 

Restless reality shifted, then shifted again. He was rolled up in a foetal ball - lost in the dip in the mattress of his bed. His arms - crossed - clung to his sides, his long, thin fingers digging into his pale skin as they hungrily tried to find connection, tried to find the rhythm, to tap its imitation - the next steady reality - but everything kept changing, kept shifting - reality was restless, unable to get him to focus on its forming and reforming trajectory, its next potential unfolding story. So he remained - foetal-like - his bony knees close up to his chest, blistered heels digging into his ass - as he rocked and he rolled, his body spasming with every new wave of potential intention, of forced connectivity that never happened.

He'd been like this - off and on - for years, ever since he could remember. Nothing helped. He would always have to ride through it, sit tight, let reality fracture, shift, form, reform, like a forced kaleidoscope of possibilities, until a reality theme would stick to him long enough to become his next story. Reality would form a bubble around him, fill it with buildings, trees, people, characters - all that he could want or need - and he'd float with that for a while, pay lip-service to its realness, until it started to fade, pulse, shift, fracture, and he would curl up, fold himself into himself, and wait once again for a new story to unfold.

He breathed silently, heavily into his bony knees - and waited. What else was there to do?