The clock ticks. It will keep on ticking in perpetuum, invariably and constantly peeling the layers of consciousness to delicately reveal the verity that she has hopelessly opted to conceal all this time. As the hands of the clock races forward, the timepiece rings. It is time.
Her fingers crawl in search of the button to silence the ring. Ever so lightly, she rests her fingertips on the chill surface of the button - and it remained as it is, for the longest time as the rest of the world canters forward, ignoring all in its way.
She hovered in unacceptance, arduously trying to turn seconds into hours and days into months. The clock continues to ring - penetrating the silence around her, its amplitude reaching high enough to graze the tips of her toes dangling below her suspended umbra. As if this was strong enough of a stimuli, her fingers reflexively pushes down on the button, bringing placid order from chaos.
Perturbed, she digs her knees deeper, scissoring her way back to the position most familiar to her. She pulls her blanket of factitious comfort, love and affection higher towards her cheeks, basking in its slapdash warmth - unaware that even though snugness is the main agenda in her mind, life ambles forward, leaving her rooted in the past.
Wake up dear, wake up.