Three o´clock. He opened his eyes and pondered upon the countless times he had layed there, breathing. The events of the day, women, friends (past and present) raced through his mind.
That was the moment which eluded him, the moment where consciousness slips away and retreats to another world, a shinier, softer world where he was not himself, where he wasn´t bound by his inhibitions and the rules of the real (real?) world didn´t apply.
A thought came to his head and was dismissed as quickly as it had appeared, "of course he wasn´t afraid his breathing would stop as soon as he fell asleep". This momentary outburst made him reflect on how thoughts often proved to be rebellious and unpredictable, true expressions of the "self" that lives inside, the one that waits for that one, rare, moment when the mind is caught off-guard and one can be truly free.
During the day he was able to escape this thoughts or even confront them, the daily distractions somehow made them trivial, unimportant shadows that lurked behind everything else. It was the nights he feared the most, or at least what the nights, with their pressing silence conjured from the dephts of himself, that feeling that started in his stomach and climbed to his chest corroding and rotting everything in its path.
Tomorrow, he was sure of it, he would be able to take on the world, to laugh and talk and even sing but the present, the voices, the music and the faces that played in his head were unbearable. He turned on the light, picked up his pen, took a look at his watch and started writing: Three o´clock. . .