There is a place I go to escape the tribulations of my life. A place the dog cannot reach. A place outside his very imagination (as well it must be. The dog is far too little to have ever peered over the bathroom counter). The sink.
Yes, the cool ceramic of the bathroom sink is my sanctuary. Now that I am unable to sleep alone, it is the only place left in the prison where I can go, become invisible to the dog, and bask in the comfort of my solitude.
Alone. Free. My body pressed into the chill. Filling every edge of the sink. My thoughts roam where they will. I dream of bursting into ash. Rising in the sky. Seared to the surface of the sun. Moments when my usual dread is softened into something more pensive. Something more like wistfulness.
Sometimes my only desire is to be left like this, frozen, forever. And other times I cannot bear the weight of my own nightmares and I sink into a terrible depression. I run in panic even to the dog for a kind word (which he, of course, is not capable of. He spouts the most idiotic of expressions: "there, there," he says to me, as though words so asinine could hold any kind of meaning. "There, there, kitty cat," and I hate him all the more furiously for his condescension).
Even these nightmares, however, are a salve because I so cherish this solitude. There is only one problem.
Either the sink is nearly too small for me (and getting smaller each day),
or I am very nearly too big for the sink.