Some-days when I stare into the mirror after an instance of splashing the cold through and beyond my eyelids, just after discarding my bed; I see a lot of things—most of them which I'm familiar with.

A coarse curl of brown over my crown, evident due to the friction between my hair and the same pillow I've been using for four years as of now. The brooding ovals, protruded under eyes letting out a cry for more sleep—itching them causes greater dread than splashing them cold, I now somewhat understand why morgues are kept so cold.

Despite my ravaged face, everyday I witness a different glint of expression on the surface of my oily-brown skin. Neither is it due to any thoughts formed that swirl me down the pool of the great contempt I have of montonicity, nor does it linger everyday—like a creeper would. It just knows when to arrive somehow.

Yesterday it made me smile, there was born a deep ecstasy, somewhere down back in my larynx. I laughed menancingly before I could turn the tap on.

A day before the oil was gone, the layer rather reeked red of the contempt, not of monotonicty, but of something that speaks a language perhaps foregin to my kin. Perhaps it loathed the old-worn pillow or perhaps the striking stretch mark that indicated down my neck of a hand misplaced beacuse of restlessness.

Today it was sharp awake, the white outside my iris shined brighter than the luminescent lamp above, I dragged my eyelids down to expose any signs of weakness, but sadly there were none. All red roads had turned colorless of expression.

I do not understand sleep at all. We carry so much inside ourselves; last happy conversations of souls long deceased, grudges against the people we love, admiration for the masses we hate, a striking sine-wave of careless enthusiasm and reckless hatred enough of burning a man alive by mere words.

Yet we close our eyes, lock ourselves on a mattress and somehow tend to forget it all.

They say the mind never sleeps and the part that is responsible for imagination bulges the strongest, directing cinematic dreams and perhaps realities beyond our reach.

Maybe it is the load of contempt, esctasy, despair and every other thought that I carry which leaks over my epidermis every night, gradually altering my face into an adult one. Perhaps growing mature is just sustaining extra the load of the mind—children tend to forget it all, no question why they look so young.

I feel sometimes my dreams extend over my cranium, into the physical realm subconsciously while slowly laying the path ahead. Or maybe I just think too much of the numbness I feel between waking up and washing my face.