in between dreams

I am scared of emails. I have stopped checking them. I think I've mastered the art of stealth that I can convince myself I don't exist at all. No one is contacting me (I refuse to read my emails); I do not exist (I am an irresponsible person). 

I do exist. My name is on a list -- multiple lists -- on a class list -- muted group chats -- I'm sure I'm on record at the debt collector's. But I will not go to class and I will not text back Sofia. And if I block my ears and close my eyes fiercely enough, I can pretend that it's all just an irrational, anxiety-inducing nightmare -- something my brain creates to give me an alive feeling. I'll flatten that sandcastle piling up and start over with my own smooth surface. No structure, just grains and grains of pointless sand. Losing some of itself to the wind but it makes no difference at all. 

My life is going to the shop five minutes away. And the world does not exist past that 350 metre radius. I never know what to buy and I never buy enough, and I guarantee myself that I will go in again tomorrow, in my pyjama bottoms and wool coat. 

I'm in between dreams and reality, sometimes I'm nowhere at all. I'm rotting in bed, I'm smoking outside, I'm in the canned food aisle. A couple days ago, I thought the year was 2024. A couple weeks ago I spent too much money on CBD tea, ashwagandha, anything to help me sleep. This morning, I pretended everything was alright and I went to the shop and bought a pack of biscuits I didn't even like. Tomorrow I will do the same.