Wakeful Sleeping
Melatonin.
Small pink pills, the size and feel of a Sweet Tart. Magic, perhaps the way a placebo can be magic; or, perhaps legitimately. It doesn't matter.
I ate. I ate the way I eat after waking up in the afterglow of a 100 mile finish, that stale and somewhat befuddled reality that is ripe with the haze and glazed aura of disorientation and mild disbelief, suddenly ravenously hungry even for things I don't usually eat. The stomachache that followed was akin to the disgust of having drank too much and then having made questionable decisions. Teemed with a nauseatingly painful sinus infection, I overall had transformed into a troll.
I think I lament here about loneliness more often than not, and here rather than other outlets or mediums, because it's so socially unacceptable to do it in other company. Friends make well-intended but unwanted suggestions, usually to the tune of either not needing a man, or to date someone they know-- someone altogether not to my liking. I'm aware I don't need a man. After all, I've been single longer than almost anyone I know. But, I am not a person who enjoys being alone, despite my reclusive tendencies. I like going out; I like companionship. And, I like sex, and probably like it more than any woman I've met. But, I don't particularly want it to be random either. I'm drawn to it being attached to some manner of connection, whether with a good friend or committed lover. Social media is not, as a general rule, not the place where I feel inclined to share these things.
I've felt an uncanny sense of urgency lately, like there is a great deal I want to say, do, accomplish; and, I have an irrational fear that time is of the essence, that I am in danger again. Perhaps it's still rubble from all the terror that unfolded last November. I don't know. I suspect I am shell shocked from what happened, and likely have PTSD. But, the anxiety has become overwhelming, and it's still difficult sometimes to leave home, especially if I'm home alone when I decide to leave. I think certain things are impossible from which to recover. Ghosts. Lagging, staggering reminders of what might have been, more than what was. In the end, that is how we end up ghosts for others: haunting with a back story of what unfinished business we left behind when we passed on. All the same, we fear dying for the same reason.
The day was one of wakefulness and delirium, walking and resting, thinking and trying not to think.
It was atypical only in the way that the sleep overtook me: seemingly at random, and for varying lengths of time. And, the wakefulness followed no pattern and had no objective. I floated. There was so much to want, and so little rest.
I swallowed the pill as though I'd swallowed it every day.
I feel so many things.
I want so many more...
Small pink pills, the size and feel of a Sweet Tart. Magic, perhaps the way a placebo can be magic; or, perhaps legitimately. It doesn't matter.
I ate. I ate the way I eat after waking up in the afterglow of a 100 mile finish, that stale and somewhat befuddled reality that is ripe with the haze and glazed aura of disorientation and mild disbelief, suddenly ravenously hungry even for things I don't usually eat. The stomachache that followed was akin to the disgust of having drank too much and then having made questionable decisions. Teemed with a nauseatingly painful sinus infection, I overall had transformed into a troll.
I think I lament here about loneliness more often than not, and here rather than other outlets or mediums, because it's so socially unacceptable to do it in other company. Friends make well-intended but unwanted suggestions, usually to the tune of either not needing a man, or to date someone they know-- someone altogether not to my liking. I'm aware I don't need a man. After all, I've been single longer than almost anyone I know. But, I am not a person who enjoys being alone, despite my reclusive tendencies. I like going out; I like companionship. And, I like sex, and probably like it more than any woman I've met. But, I don't particularly want it to be random either. I'm drawn to it being attached to some manner of connection, whether with a good friend or committed lover. Social media is not, as a general rule, not the place where I feel inclined to share these things.
I've felt an uncanny sense of urgency lately, like there is a great deal I want to say, do, accomplish; and, I have an irrational fear that time is of the essence, that I am in danger again. Perhaps it's still rubble from all the terror that unfolded last November. I don't know. I suspect I am shell shocked from what happened, and likely have PTSD. But, the anxiety has become overwhelming, and it's still difficult sometimes to leave home, especially if I'm home alone when I decide to leave. I think certain things are impossible from which to recover. Ghosts. Lagging, staggering reminders of what might have been, more than what was. In the end, that is how we end up ghosts for others: haunting with a back story of what unfinished business we left behind when we passed on. All the same, we fear dying for the same reason.
The day was one of wakefulness and delirium, walking and resting, thinking and trying not to think.
It was atypical only in the way that the sleep overtook me: seemingly at random, and for varying lengths of time. And, the wakefulness followed no pattern and had no objective. I floated. There was so much to want, and so little rest.
I swallowed the pill as though I'd swallowed it every day.
I feel so many things.
I want so many more...