Some days breathing is difficult. Not just because of asthma. But because of the weight pressing on my chest. And no, it's not a cat. It's something else.

Moving is slow on those days. Like crawling. And it's so hard. Very hard. All I want to do is crawl back in bed and try to sleep it away. I can lay there and fantasize about a better reality. I can place myself anywhere in the world, doing anything I want. And it's never right here, right now.

On good days, I can't make myself sleep- and I can't conjure up preferable realities. So, I guess this isn't exactly a good day. But I do have the hope that it might turn out all right anyway, and that tomorrow might be good.

And that's why I keep getting out of bed in the morning. That and the stupid cat that jumps on me when I sleep in. It bothers him. Maybe he's smarter than I am on those occasions.