Ficlets

Josh’s eyelids felt the weight of the world. As if tiny people, their feet digging for grip in strained epidermis, were trying to push his upper-cheek and lower-eyebrow together.

He lay there, half wrapped in a duvet cover, staring at the oscillating fan in the corner of the room.

Resigned to his nightly routine, and too stubborn to take an Ambien, Josh boarded the infinite merry-go-round of pre-sleep thought.

It was a dreaded pattern. That point in the night when both he and his brain know that neither is getting any rest, despite any external observations of a static body.

Josh wished he was born in the 1800’s and not suffering from a case of 21st Century Melancholy.

Too many inputs, not enough output. Too many distractions, not enough focus. Stuck in a cycle where community college and ‘To Do’ lists don’t help remove the empty feeling that follows him around on lazy days. On most days.

“I would’ve been a pianist,” Josh said to himself. The oscillating fan slowly, but steadily, disagreed.