Embraced by dreams (1)
The living room bathed in the warm embrace of sunset's orange hues, marking the passage of time beyond the clock's reach. It must have been well past 5 o'clock, though the exact duration remained elusive.
There I sat, nestled in the corner, my eyes ensnared by the peculiar scene unfolding before me.
In the heart of the living room, the hand within the carton persisted in a futile dance, its efforts growing wearier with every passing second. The cardboard walls now served as an inadvertent prison, and I found myself drawn to the struggle within.
With each feeble movement, the hand's determination echoed in the rhythmic taps against the confines of the cardboard.
A silent battle unfolded before my eyes until, in a moment of surrender, the hand almost ceased, gently admitting its defeat in a final tap upon the surface.
If I had to hazard a guess, it felt like I'd been locked in a staring contest with that enigmatic box for a solid four hours. My eyes were as dry as a desert, and the idea of sleep sounded like a welcome escape—floor included.
The stiffness in my body resembled that of an old car refusing to start after years of neglect. Rising from my floor-sitting marathon required a Herculean effort, and my bones seemed to protest with every creak and groan.
Summoning the last shreds of courage, I managed to stand up, feeling like a marionette with rusty joints. The soreness lingered, but curiosity fueled me to face whatever lay beyond the realm of that confounding box.
Releasing a symphony of cracks from my protesting joints, I summoned the strength to stand. Stretching like a cat awakening from an unintentional nap, I let out a yawn, hoping to dispel the accumulated stress.
With a freshly mustered smile, I attempted to convince myself,
Hanzo Masamune
"Alright! Today was just a bizarre stress-induced dream. Time to put it all behind and hit the sack."
Exhaustion blurred the lines between reality and my overworked imagination, and my stomach seemed to echo the sentiment.
Navigating the corners of the living room, I headed towards the attached kitchen. Though my gaze grazed the giant box, I tried my best to treat it as a mere piece of eccentric furniture. Hunger trumped oddities, and I was determined to appease my grumbling stomach.
I untangle the hanging apron and secure it around myself, a feeble attempt at maintaining a semblance of order. Opening the upper cabinets, I reveal a kitchen well-stocked for someone conscious of their health, despite my identity as an office worker who practically lives at home.
Ordinarily, I steer clear of instant food, opting for homemade meals to keep the semblance of a balanced life. However, this weekend, exceptions abound.
Today's chaos left me too drained to whip up a proper meal, so I succumb to the allure of convenience – Blue Penguin’s cup ramen. As I devour the quick-fix sustenance, I can't help but acknowledge the deviation from my usual routine. Hunger and exhaustion, the unruly twins, are hard to resist.
With my makeshift dinner devoured, I freshen up before swapping attire and navigating the living room's corners once more. The colossal Arkham asylum box, now oddly subdued, becomes a piece of furniture to ignore.
Collapsing onto my bed, I utter a mantra, half a plea and half a prayer,
Hanzo Masamune
"Today was just a bad dream, a bad dream, a bad dre—"
I chant it like a lullaby, hoping that the repetition will lull me into a dreamless sleep, a sanctuary where the bizarre events of the day can be left behind.
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