I’m exhausted. I laid my head down on the cold floor. I could still hear the thunder and rain clearly, even as I drifted further to sleep. The sound of my own breathing becomes quieter, more unfocused, but the cacophony outside reverberates through even my dreams. I think I’ve become dependent on the chaos outside to lull me, even if its threat hasn’t diminished. The stones still shake and loosen, and dripping water pools in the cracks to work diligently on a fissure.

I want to sleep. Every day seems to be getting worse: the weather, the stone and ruins, my own health. I don’t know why I thought I could live here. I don’t know why I thought I could live anywhere. I barely registered as a person before, swaddled by convenience and comfort. I never expected there to be any real tribulations because I never experienced anything real before, and now, hungry, tired, and filthy, I want nothing more than to leave this place and go back to the uncomplicated bliss.

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I can’t even manage that, though. I’ve run out of the supplies that I carried with me, few they were, and barely managed to secure anything substantial for a return trip. I don’t know where I am. The weather hasn’t calmed down, and I feel trapped in the choice to remain. The walls crumble, little by little, and by now I’m hoping this whole place collapses on me.