I Try to Count'em

My parents question me; my sisters question me. My friends question me, people that I know, question me. People that don't know me, question me; people that I don't like and that I know I'm not liked by them, question me. Questions is the only thing I get.

When I help myself to bed and close my eyes late at night, questions start to pop-up in my head. One after another, one deeper than the other, the next one asking for more details than the one before. I try to wrap all those words and letters in wool and pretend that they are sheeps. I start counting them. When there's three zeroes to the right of the dot, I cancel them and start fresh again. Just like I use to do when I took accounting in college. I eventually fall asleep.

In my dreams, words and letters wrap in wool mix with real sheeps and angry mobs. They carry sticks and pitchforks, rocks and axes. Letters Z, H and A are at the head of the group; letters Q and R are always the laziest, lagging behind everyone else -even behind the baby lambs. They all chase me, try to get me, to get me dead or alive or asleep, but I always get away.

I wake up and is time to blow my nose, take my medicine and go to work.