In the winter season, one of my yearly anxieties greets me with a cold kiss. It shrouds itself behind familiarity; like a supportive and reliable friend greeting you each morning. Half asleep, I'm compelled to leave the comforts of my bed while the sun has yet to caress the horizon. I scramble for the switch, and suddenly I understand what Paul went through. I can't see, but I have to go. Dazed, I make out my pristine confidant across the barren, tiled terrain, but something isn't right. My partner calls me but the whole area feels as if hell has frozen over. With incredible reluctance, I choose to march forward into the lonely and destitute battlefield. My once blanketed toes scream as their warmth is stolen with each step and ceaseless doubts begin to ease into my trek. I'm shivering but I have to go. I must go.
Within blurry sight, my fortress of solitude is near. I rush in a blinded stupor to the end of my quest. The reward is near. Relief is here. Consuming the last morsel of energy, I enter the castle's gates and perch myself on my porcelain throne.
My eyelids, once confused with the midsection of world renown sumo wrestlers, have received liposuction. My soul escapes as I receive the dementor's kiss. My final words?
"Et tu, toilet?"