Rolling over, reaching aimlessly for the end to the blaring alarm. Scan, click, and shut. Shut, as are the eyes. Fading gradually back into a dream-like state, where the mind rolls into submission by the wandering subconscious. In silent placidity, the eyes concealed beneath the lids move from corner to corner rapidly, and breathing becomes somewhat irregular. Not even a slight movement of a hair, or a single eyelash fallen. It is silent. Though, the mind speaks volumes.


Entering into this dream-like state, he sits. Waiting in a single chair, not accompanied by a set at a table, no particular place or positioning meant for this chair, it's just there. Where exactly is there? Inside his mind? Everywhere and nowhere at all. It seems to be just a chair, where he's sitting, waiting patiently. He has no recollection of any plans, any notices, no formal meet up. Just sitting. He continues to sit out of choice though and waits earnestly. He knows not what he waits for, but he can't help but to listen to the small voice telling him to stay patient. That it's the right thing to do. An intrinsic motivation, an instinct. As he waits, he exhibits a feeling that any person would when stuck in the limbo that is patience. He becomes bored. He assesses his comfortability in the chair, measuring the satsifaction it brings to his posture and lower half. He examines the chair in which he sits. Wooden, polished and neatly crafted. It stands on four mahogany legs, accompanied by a subtle indented mold base indicating where to be sat in and placed as so either to improve comfortability or warrant style. The back is an arc-shaped piece, finished finely by what possibly appears to be a spokeshave, the finishes on the wood are too intricate for it to be something else. Carefully absorbing the chair, he now creates a sense of familiarity with his position. Sitting in this chair, waiting in nothingness, for what could be nothingness. He ponders if he is indeed in limbo. Though, he is completely unaware of his dream-like state. Is he dead? He questions how long he has been sitting in this chair, and why the chair is where it is, and why there is nothing else but this chair and himself. In his state of inquisition, he decides to stand suddenly. Removing himself from the one thing he let himself become familiar with, the only thing he could become familiar with, in this vast nothing. As he stands, the chair shrivels into wood shavings. He's taken back, shocked. In utter dismay, he kneels down and touches the fine pieces, his inquisition now becoming a hybrid of confusion and curiosity. He doesn't understand why this has happened. Yet, he oddly finds some solace in the fact that he doesn't know what the meaning of the chair was to begin with, or why he was sitting in it, but that his one action now piqued a newfound interest. He stands tall once again from his kneeling position, and thinks to himself what other simple actions could cause something to happen. He starts kicking his feet out, and punching the air. Almost dance-like. He gets down and lays completely flat. Rolls over, stands again, and screams. He runs furiously, and notices he still feels fatigue, somehow in this absent abyss. Is he truly in limbo? Why is this so vivid, he asks himself? What does this all mean? He yells at the top of his lungs and quickly proceeds to fall to his knees, sobbing. He curls into a fetus position, now lost of all inquisition. Frightened, and alone. Is this hell? Slowly gathering himself, he sits up. Wiping his tears from his face, he begins to feel less and less scared. A little less investigative. And once again, entirely bored. At least before, he had the random nice chair to examine and sit in. He can't even recall how much time has passed or how long ago it was that he had that chair. He closes his eyes, though not to sleep. He keeps them closed for some time, unwilling to throw himself back into the visible nothingness. He rather stay now in the darker, blind oblivion of his head. He thinks to himself once again," Why am I here? Where is here? Did I die, am I dreaming? Did I deserve this?" He collects his questions and thinks blankly, with no way to answer them. He decides he'll reopen his eyes finally, and the faintest feeling of hope glimmers. He thinks just then, maybe when he opens them again, it won't be the same, he won't be here, he won't be alone and bored. He doesn't even care if understands the meaning of all this or not, he just wants to not be here lonely and stuck in everlasting, empty transit. He thinks opposedly for a second, in a pessismitic manner. If he reopens, and it's the same, he'll go crazy, he'll be excruciatingly bored. He dismisses the thought and pragmatics for the constant comfort of hope. He breathes deeply one more time, wondering if it's even air he's breathing. He reopens his eyes...

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