(no subject)
Insomnia has slipped back into my nights, exhaustion permeating my days. Last night half-dreaming half awake, visions of flying, or swimming, its methodical breathing patterns, my hands circling from my lungs outward like wings, I deep-breathed myself into hyper-ventilation, and the blooming panic that followed; it is always a pounding of the heart, and a small burst in my very center. Somewhere deep in the middle of me something breaks open and something dark, cold, and heavy rushes through my bloodstream, out into my limbs. By the time my alarm rang at 7:30 this morning, the dark hollows were deeply set below my eyes, and my whole body ached with the hunger for sleep.
My day too, seems strange and dreamlike. Like my dream last week, I am slipping between the worlds of wakefulness and sleep--fully aware of both, infused with the surreal nature of it. I swim through my day, thrash through my night, and wait for the impending calm. A calm must be coming; it must. I feel buoyed and used up all at once. It is a strange watery weightlessness, a deep slippery fatigued expectance. I harness myself to the vision of my press, the feeling of ink on my hands; I hold my life at arms length and wait to see what's next.
My day too, seems strange and dreamlike. Like my dream last week, I am slipping between the worlds of wakefulness and sleep--fully aware of both, infused with the surreal nature of it. I swim through my day, thrash through my night, and wait for the impending calm. A calm must be coming; it must. I feel buoyed and used up all at once. It is a strange watery weightlessness, a deep slippery fatigued expectance. I harness myself to the vision of my press, the feeling of ink on my hands; I hold my life at arms length and wait to see what's next.