At times it was as if she didn't have control over her own body or soul, or heart. Even her mind was no longer her own. Dreams and nightmares woven so slyly into her consciousness, nothing was real and nothing was not.
The cat's whiskers need clipping: these and other associated thoughts that arrive with the onset of an unsettled mind in overdrive kept her awake. There was a patch of uneven paint in the office; she couldn't stop thinking about this either. No sleep for the paintfully aware.
The only way around it, she knew, was to balance reality and madness into a complementary blend of acceptable shades. That way she'd never have to concern herself with what she'd done, or what she hadn't, and if this went successfully, with what she might.
This diluted confusion was what gave her hope; she slept soundly that night, safe in the knowledge that her dreams were her own, and in their lucidity, far more malleable than real life ever was.
It was the morning after that now concerned her.