I am a temperamental, dissociated mannequin
expulsing convective heat profusely
into the pores of the unforgiving
pleather padded,  worn-out gaming chair
for the past twelve hours of a grueling
dungeon battle and boss battle.
The sweat dripping down my erector spinae
puddling at the bottom of my overused
flannel that I washed a week ago.
The thickness of the air is pungent
and hovers over my keyboard and mouse.
The dark cave of my existence is plenty.
Yes I understand that my reality is fluid,
it shifts from universe to universe
depending on my temperament
and I hardly have time for my own world.
The satisfaction of fiction is fleeting
but that is why I keep joining the lobby.
Time after time, endless hours of adventuring
in the dark of my parents basement.
Because this reality is much easier not  being in it.