the modern Sylvia Plath (a vignette)

Is silence truly peaceful? she wonders, staring out a tiny window in her tiny apartment. All her windows are always closed; there's heavy smoke in the world outside. There's also pain and rain. All her lights are off, too, and she doesn't really know why. Maybe she prefers the dark ambience, maybe she forgot to turn them on, or maybe she's actually Batman. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, there is the shrill whistle of a pressure cooker. Funny -- she doesn't own one of those. She's been thinking about getting one for a long time, but she never does. She doesn't really know why. Besides, her mind is too steeped in rancor for the same noise to also be pervading her home.

She turns back to the blue-tinted screen in front of her and sighs, paralyzed by the weight of all 1.5 kilograms of high-speed processor and liquid-crystal display. She suddenly notices a set of dull, hollow, faceless eyes staring back at her and wonders for a moment if she's in the middle of a nightmare. Then she flinches imperceptibly, realizing it's only herself. Steadily getting up to go to the kitchen, she makes herself her tenth cup of coffee, making a mental note to stop soon. But she knows full well that she won't. She can't. Not yet.

She flicks on the light and immediately gasps like a vampire about to vaporize under the sun. It's a difficult adjustment after such a long stint in the dark. She switches the light back off, wondering if she can find a way to sleep without closing her eyes. As she returns to her chair, her dazed brain wanders once more. What are the perils of thinking too much? She should try to be happy, but she's only numb. The night is too quiet.

When she realizes she's going around in circles, she listens to her favorite Radiohead song. She sits on the bed, not intending to sleep yet. She plays another track and lets her head fall to the pillow. Another track, and her eyes are wet and glassy. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams loudly.