I am not a walrus.

Lights out.

One glance at the laptop screen.

Media player on. Check.

Playlist selected. Check.

Headphones connected. Check.

Correct sound settings. Check.

Stray thought pops up: Damn, I’m one hell of an audiophile.

Stop it already. Time to plug in.

And so, I assume my position on the bed.

I lie still, as still as I possibly can. The only visible movement is the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe, slowly and evenly.

My eyes are closed. It’s time for them to rest.

Touch and hearing are the only senses left working: hearing because it’s the only one I need, and touch because it’s impossible to turn off.

My sense of smell is already screwed up, ergo it’s out of the equation.

No, I am not relaxing. This, in fact, is an exercise. A workout.

The music in my ears is not Mozart or Chopin, but Armin van Buuren.

It’s music for dancing, not for lying motionless like a corpse.

And yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Fighting the intense urge to move in time with the music as the thumping beats relentlessly beckon me to, like sirens among treacherous rocks.

All that chaos, while appearing completely tranquil on the outside.

This is an exercise in restraint. In stifling emotion-driven tendencies so as to form a protective veneer around this broken self.

This is an exercise in being cold. So cold, that touching my heart will give you frostbite.

Self-preservation through turning myself into a mere stone sculpture: Apathetic, emotionless and yes, cold.

And it’s all because of the fact that passion nearly killed me.

Definitely not what the shrink ordered, but I couldn’t care less.