First Bookout

Lying on my bed with the sunlight gently coming in, I felt slightly disoriented. The past 12 days felt like a dream. It felt like I had always woken up with the sun in my eyes and not half groping in the darkness of dawn. It was so quiet too, no chatter or buzz of entire companies stirring, or the flock of birds squawking and shitting upon our walls.

Whatever had kept me going for the past 12 days had disappeared too. The iron will had gone out somewhere into billions of pieces lurking in my blood. I was soft and flabby and civilian.

It felt surreal, but I tried to pull out some kind of reflection from the murky impressions of how the days went by. I could only remember the endorphins from lighting up upon a good meal, or the constant soreness and pain in my limbs, or the passing of faces and faces. God, and I never want to heard the same old “left, right, left, right, left, left, left right…”

The sight of civilian and the simplest most normal things make me feel oddly grateful. I remember the rumbling bus ride and the dazzling streets and feeling the warm surge of homecoming in my chest. Is this what I am defending? These stupid trees, and indifferent cars going by, and dumb street lights, people laughing and passing by the days? They look so trivial, but they are mine.

Even the pain is gone now. I start to think that the past 12 days had not really been tough. It was tempting to get complacent and say that I could do this all day. Maybe not the sleeping less part. I was surprised by how sleep-deprived I am and that was the only thing I am dreading.

Still, lying in my bed, I closed my eyes and felt like I had just woken up from a long slumber. I am going back to sleep in another 3 days and seemingly forget about what happened. I feel another version of me growing, waiting to take over and become a foreign and surprising creature that moves me around when I shut down.