I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like my ribs are breaking into a million little pieces scattered on the floors of glass houses that only exist in the walls of my mind. I watched the northern lights on my ceiling last night, or this morning, or yesterday morning. Time isn't real for me anymore. Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, I have yet again become unstuck. But yes, the northern lights. My ceiling turned into waves of colorful Chinese dragons dancing just out of reach. Everything was illuminated by the dying light bulbs of my twinkle lights my mom strung up just after Christmas in my fourth grade year. I am fond of them and it makes me quite sad that they are slowly dimming, one by one. My whole room has become a tomb for everything that once brought me joy. There are countless teddy bears on the shelf next to my pathetic excuse for a bed, and their only purpose, now, is for ridiculous staring contests that I win, of course, if I can convince myself that they blinked. Maybe they became distracted by light show on my ceiling. Golden strings dance and form shapes just above my head. I watched them for hours, just lying there under my blankets.