Here Sits a Man on His Soft Couch

Here sits a man on his soft couch, a small pillow resting behind his head while he lets his television flicker with various images he isn’t even aware. This has gone on for a month. This man is suffering from insomnia, and no doctor he goes to is willing to give him any medication that may help with this problem of his. So now, with paid leave from work, he sits here, the bags under his eyes becoming plentiful with each passing day, his eyes drying out and becoming less and less capable of sight. His body seemingly atrophies, the muscle mass becoming less and less dense with each passing day. He used to weigh 160 pounds. He now weighs 90.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, in the middle of his dark room, the only light being his television. It’s only on as a sort of light, because this man has no capacity of watching or being about to engage himself in whatever vacuous trash spews itself outward his house from wherever it’s being broadcasted. He knows what the images are, but because of delirium overriding whatever kind of analytical prowess he had less, he cannot pull out their meaning. They only serve to keep proving that he keeps deteriorating from this problem of his. He used to have 20/20 vision. He now cannot even see an inch in front of him.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, with only static flowing throughout the room he is seated in. More and more, it is white noise to the man, which intensely disturbs him. Combined with his own sleeplessness, he shudders a little in his couch. That little bit of shaking is just about the only movement he can muster up now after a month has passed of this. It’s almost like hell, where he’ll ultimately die from this, the eternal sleep. However, the thought quickly leaves his head space, as most of his thoughts do now, as another flash from the television distracts him and results in losing hold of his idea. He used to have thoughts. He now cannot have thoughts.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, claustrophobic setting in as the static has suddenly shifted into a garbled mess of a unified crowd talking amongst each other. He sits in the middle of this, despite pinned in his darkroom, solitary from the world around him. He manages to swallow a build up of his own spittle from his own mouth while the noise keeps going. He shifts and turns in the couch, managing to force his already ruined body to contort itself away from the crowd. The voices get louder and louder, blaring at him like sirens up against his ears, his eyes bulging out as he can feel himself dying. Suddenly, static once more, at a moment’s notice, with the voices seemingly gone for now. He used to be well adjusted. He now is racked with fear from the voices in his head.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, curled up in the fetal position from the sudden appearance and disappearance of the voices. The voices in his head, of course. He continues to watch television, but now, with the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing throughout his veins, he can somewhat understand what’s coherently going on. An infomercial plays for penis enlargement. Get penis enlargements. Get penis enlargements. Get penis enlargements. Enlarge your penis today. He can only sit there, the thought of penises now on his mind, as the rush quickly leaves his system. The thought leaves as well, and he is back to where he started. He used to be perplexed by advertising. He now can only gawk at it stupidly.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, in a situation where, whether or not he even wants to, he is suffering from self destruction. He just sits there all day, absolutely nothing being done around his living quarters. He is too tired for that. He can only sit on his comfy couch and barely watch infomercial for penis enlargement without feeling numb all around his body. He’s, at once, in a perpetual state of both being dead and alive, and has found out that he is neither. He is teetering off the edge of sanity right now, and something is pulling him straight into madness. He used to have choices about his life. He now can only go along with the choices made by no-one.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, back in the fetal position as more voices appear, entrapping his weak body onto the couch while he can only gaze upon the empty room he sits in. The voices are laughing. At him? With him? He isn’t laughing, more hyperventilating. Who is laughing? These questions soon leave his head as he holds himself in fear. That’s all he can do now, become cornered by his own delusions. He used to have control. He now has none.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, surrounded by the voices that mock him with their simple invisible presence. He shakes and quivers in fear, thinking he may die before that thought, like the rest, flies right out of the window. He doesn’t know who's with him, and more time passes where his arms attempt to protect their host. They are flinged about the general vicinity of what around him, but all that occurs is the increasing volume and bass of the voices which mock him so. Mocking him. Mocking him. Mocking him. Mock this man today. He used to be a normal guy. He now is mocked by voices without bodies that he imagines.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, gulping as the voices continue to approach him, reaching the volume of a jackhammer while he can only fling himself about, in place. Tossing and turning in his seat, that is his only line of defense from these weird spectral anomalies with no appearance. He sits there, his entire body shuddering while now crawled up in the fetal position once more, his eyes back to the television screen. Infomercial again. Get insurance. Get insurance. Get insurance. Get insurance today. His eyes can only see the blurry blob of lights that’re supposed to form into an actual picture, but instead remain a completely shapeless, meaningless mess of color. He cannot see anything more than this anymore, as the voices keep taunting him. Taunt him. Taunt him. Taunt him. Taunt him today. He used to be able to sleep. He now stays up for 32 days in a row.

Here sits a man on his soft couch, breaking down by the seams as sweat drips from his pores, the voices constantly yelling into his ears like jet engines forced down those two holes on the sides of his head. After a while he calms down, the voices just muttering off into a rambling fit up against him, trying to torment him like it’s his fault that he is awake right now. His fault for the torture he has to endure on a daily basis. Mock him. Mock him. Mock him. Mock him today. He keeps sweating buckets as he stares at the screen, seeing nothing as the voices all crowd around him, laughing, taunting, mocking, right against his ear. Soon, silence. The television transmit static into his room, while his eyes widen. The beating of his heart now takes over, reminding him that he is alive. He used to be comfortable with the idea of being alive. He now can only react frantically as the beating of his single heart speeds up

Here sits a man on his soft couch, screaming on the top of his voice, realizing that he is still alive.