How do I write a novel when my life consists of short stories?

I was sad and drowning and sinking into my sheets. It swallowed me up like a giant squid; holding me tight with eight arms. And then I was completely alone. My thoughts eluded me, they fell apart word by word, becoming little patches of light like fireflies. I tried to grasp them with my fingers, jumping and digging and trying to force them back in as they flew away. I tried to align them to see if they could be as pretty as stars. But words, words elude me. 

It was night time and I could hear my sister Albany whimper on her pillow. She fell in love with a man who grew flowers on his skin every time he laughed. He took Albany on his bike and they rode around the city, laughing and kissing and holding each other’s hands. He was so happy, he often left trails of flowers on the streets. Once, Albany wore a veil and a white dress on his bike, and they pretended to be just married.

My sister would dust his shoulders off as they say goodbye. He would pluck his fingers out, which, at the end of the day become white daisies. Ever since, Albany’s room is full of jars and vases of flowers.

When my parents found out, they did not approve of the flower man. They found him strange and mysterious, and he gave my sister colds. They said my sister’s weakness is she falls for the strange ones—the one who has imaginary friends, the other one who sat by himself on the corner. They never thought of these as strengths. My mother screamed at her last night because she was home late. Albany kept a straight face. She was prohibited from seeing the flower man.

I am writing this and my sister is still asleep. The rain came, there are white daisies on the garden, washed away.