katnevershutsup

On the first day, the day that I woke, all I could see was light. It was a gradual thing, the awakening. Slowly I became aware of being, of existing, and the humming in my mind rose to a maximum. I lay there for a while, letting thoughts drift over my body, moving my fingers one by one. Then my eyes fluttered open and I could see nothing but whiteness. The gauzy blur faded and I was able to make out shapes: a door, a clock. I turned my head fractionally to the side to see a table, washed in white like everything else. No windows. There was a movement in the corner of my eye and then I felt a cool touch on my arm. I exhaled, then blacked out.

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting on platform three of London Paddington Station. The air was thick and faintly perfumed with ammonia, and moving through it was an effort, so I stayed where I was. I looked around and noticed a poster to my left proclaiming in an oversized typeface that stepping on the tracks was illegal, which in my dreamt-up mind I found almost inviting. The screens overhead flashed hysterically with train times and platform numbers, and the garbled announcements over the tannoy echoed pointlessly around my skull. The bench upon which I sat was old, and rusty nails and splinters pricked and scratched at my spine. The s