I’ve heard doors slam shut in the night, and I thought, that’s quite alright, no need to bother with a light, it’s just the air conditioner or the fan, an ordinary thing to happen nine past two at night: this night is ordinary, no need to fright.
But which door was it, I wonder, which door made the sound that flew under the already shut door of my room and tore my peaceful slumber asunder?
It’s the warmth of my bed that holds me tight within, soft warm sheets and covers wherein: I toss and turn and sleep and then, I try to leave this homey den, but for thirst or din this is a home and den I cannot stop being held within.
My eyes are drawn to the closest door, a door to a closet whose mess I certainly would never ask for, but cleaning it’s a chore and I cannot abide a bore, so it stays as it is, a veritable store of all things one might find, lose, or ignore, and although my eyes are sore, they see that door, and open as it is, I cannot help but think something more: I do not remember opening that particular door.
But I peer inside and it is empty, at least as far as I can see, or at least no more full than it used to be: at least no ghosts or ghouls in that closet have it in for me.
Was it last night when this happened last, or was it further in my past, or was it just tonight that this thing passed, when I got up to sit my ass upon the toilet when the closed bathroom door stopped me fast.
I remember something more: I did not remember closing that particular door.
I’d get up and check that door again if I could, but there’s nothing that could make me would, I wouldn’t get up even if I should, even for the bathroom floor’s cold wood.
To hear the fan I strain my ear, it’s something I forget how to hear for I leave it on all year, warm or cold out I keep it chilly here, so I don’t overheat and allow my fear of sweat to rear, but instead tonight perhaps a different fear will rear for no matter how hard I strain my ear the fan is not something I can hear.
A strange feeling wells up inside, and so I must chide myself for forgetting that this night—so ordinary—ought to be a boring ride: I don’t understand why but I want to hide, but I’m not moving an inch from my comfortable side of the bed, nothing can make me move until I have died.
Everything is ordinary repeats in my head, why did I think about the word “dead,” and now that I think about thought I realize what I’ve said, and my head wants to be led to a train of thought not at all suited for laying in bed.
What is so ordinary, I want to ask, but that is a difficult task, for I cannot find a word that fits now except bask, so I’ll repeat: ask, and now all I can say is cask, but even that cannot mask the fear that comes from being unable to (once again) ask:
Why? Why must it be ordinary? Why can’t I move? And why do I rhyme?
I cannot ask why, but I know I will until I die.
Goodbye.