Disconnected statements and half baked emotions all line the edges of my bed.

They are living, breathing things that speak with each other. Or so I like to believe. Everything I think and feel comes and stands around me. It's easier to put it together that way, when you think of these things as entities and not just whims of your tired mind.

It's like having a curious slumber party. People sitting at the edge of your bed, telling stories, asking questions. It's like being with a delightful mix of people who may not know each other but know you and, possibly, like you as well.

I shut my eyes at some point, listening to snippets of conversations and voices.

Later, I try writing. It doesn't necessarily come out in a flawless manner, but I have more fun than I   do otherwise.

I am lagging behind and trying to keep up, out of breath and wobbly.

Everything whizzes past in a determined fashion.

Time stops and darts as it pleases; sometimes it favours me and other times leaves me behind like a child lost in a zoo.

The tired humans around me don't seem to notice my incompetence. They don't realize I am not coping too well, possibly because they aren't either.

But of course, there is always some conscientious soul who blows the whistle or mocks you in a sing song voice, depending on his temperament.