There’s this conniving little space between moments, sometimes, probably close to 6am and closer still to bare skin, it slips in slowly and steals the sleep from our tear ducts. It’s that gap we all have to jump if we’re still awake, usually with newborn limbs and absent eyes, an enormous yet fleeting fraction of acceptance, forced upon us by the persistence of sunlight through bedroom windows that (in my case) hide nothing at all.

Contingency plans and over-formed concepts are wilted in the milky haze, the heart-wrenching conduct of that theory called ‘normality’ is belittled until it is finer than dust and even less significant, so thin, so sparse, we simply consume it with a single breath. The abstraction of conformity is debased, blanketed by the nonchalance of a Sunday morning sunrise, and we ask, no, we sigh: ‘oh, why can’t I live this entire life here within my room?’

(Source: tessvandeyk)