You can hide me here, in my pretty things. I will not stir to fight the malaise.

However did you want me, strong? To have your cake and eat it, too?

I was just dreaming of the outside world, of a dream outside this dream. Of colors that are vivid and real. Of people you can reach out and touch. Of rain that falls onto your skin. Of dirt that makes you truly dirty.

And you, you were just telling me stories. Stories of the people you saved during your travels. How you shared a space with a teenage mother who couldn't speak English. How you built a hut out of straw. How you saw a cock fight and drank a beer for me, alone in bed. At home.

You can hide me here, your pretty thing. I will lie against the feathers, against the weight of the world, pushing back up at me. I will imagine that strength will come to me, eventually. This is my chronic affliction.

Reach out and touch me? Tell me a story?