I am never like this. The snake wraps around and squeezes my chest, but I feel pensive. I shake and shiver as my fingers carry out their duty, squeezing its own victim that fools itself into productivity: the pencil is a ghost, and I am its God.
I remember where I am, how I stand.
The sunrise is agonizing, slow, molasses. Maybe I am just a child trapped inside, tracing the window with my finger into nonsensical pictures. Only the sun can see beyond the horizon, and I am forced to watch it despite myself.
I watch a plane pass overhead and I wonder if I will ever be one of them. The snake squeezes harder, and I gasp for breath again.
Maybe this just isn’t meant to be.
I put my pencil down.