the illusions of aid stations

Last night I built a tent out of pillows and a comforter in bed. My room was freezing cold and I was dog tired. I fell asleep as soon as the tent over my head was finished. It felt nice-- that brief half moment, when I could feel the insulation, the warmth surround me and suffocate me and kill off the awake in me. It was dark, it was quiet, it was warm.

I still don't quite feel at home here. My room is only a place to relax, to calm my head, get some sleep. As though it's only a way station, a rest stop before I move onto greener pastures, father away from the front line. Away from the fight.

I felt comfortable up front, in the fight. I was used to it, a veteran of it. Of those dark nights. Those blurry nights. Those forgotten nights. Those sad nights. Here, I feel little else except static. Motionless. Limbo. The warmth of the make-shift tent is artificial, self induced. It makes no replacement for the body that has no other recourse but to warm whatever is close to it. The tent only captures what I give to it, turning it back onto me. The warmth I have to offer myself is no replacement.

A way station. A rest stop. A half moment of sleep before greener pastures.

My body wants to sleep. My heart wants to go back into the cold and fight.

The tent tricks me into sleep, but in the morning it has fallen apart, and I wake up with failing illusion at the sight of scattered pillows.