Sheets.

Sliding under my sheets into bed--I do it every night. Every night, I go through the same routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and crawling under those dreaded sheets, knowing that the next morning I will wake up just as tired as I went to sleep. Not tired physically. Tired mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sometimes, I seems as if that one act--sliding under the sheets--is suspended in eternity, never-ended. It is as if that action were my one reality and everything else were naught but an illusion of smiles brought about by delicious chocolate chip pancakes and breakfasts with friends. Of long walks with a man who I think I love, but internally I haven't the faintest idea what that means. Of a sense of sadness at the realization that I could spend my entire life looking for my true home and never find it. Of longing to understand what goes on behind those beautiful hazel eyes. Of missing the days when my not-yet-dreaded sheets were covered in princesses whose hair I would trace with my finger when sleep evaded my six-year-old self. Of missing the person I used to be back where all that mattered was the lime-green Popsicle I slowly ate while sitting in my favorite climbing tree. Of a curiosity as to why leaves rustle the way they do, so musical and so peaceful. Illusions. Is that all they are? Is there no other reality other than these 100 count pastel purple sheets? It is here where this reality seems more real and concrete than the sound of my keyboard clicking as I type out these words.