the bright side of insomnia
Good morning. And now, before sleep I will slip into something. So I will snippit away this morning that is no longer memorial. At the moment, I am so awfully somewhere else. How will I return to work tomorrow without exploding to dust? I have truly become the dullard.
There has to be a staircase, a ladder, to a loft somewhere that looks down on the scattered hay floor of this life. Somewhere where I can see a little better and stop talking about me all the time.
My mother, I must say, is nearing death more and more every day. She lies in that room next to us and just whithers.
“death is nothing at all. i have only slipped away into the next room.
i am i, and you are you…
whatever we were to each other, that we still are… ”
and on and on “we dont see any light at the end of the tunnel. there is a tunnel after the tunnel.”
Painfully worried about the end of life. People dying everywhere and all a person can do is think of themselves. A person like me. ME ME ME. I am emphatically tired of myself.
She is a skeleton. Her skin is coming off, opening, slithering and sliming off her bones. This is reality. There are cold places and warm places and hopeful places in moments of narrowminded denial. The woman I came from is a wall away from me, dying. She has precious little time. Her fingers are blue. She cannot swallow. She spends hours having full-length conversations with invisible people, dead people, and dead pets. But she cannot speak with me about anything other than them… who I can’t see or know.
This is a time of great confusion, and the emptiness I have been suffering has been making it so much worse. Finally, tonight, I think I might feel something. I am just remembering.
There has to be a staircase, a ladder, to a loft somewhere that looks down on the scattered hay floor of this life. Somewhere where I can see a little better and stop talking about me all the time.
My mother, I must say, is nearing death more and more every day. She lies in that room next to us and just whithers.
“death is nothing at all. i have only slipped away into the next room.
i am i, and you are you…
whatever we were to each other, that we still are… ”
and on and on “we dont see any light at the end of the tunnel. there is a tunnel after the tunnel.”
Painfully worried about the end of life. People dying everywhere and all a person can do is think of themselves. A person like me. ME ME ME. I am emphatically tired of myself.
She is a skeleton. Her skin is coming off, opening, slithering and sliming off her bones. This is reality. There are cold places and warm places and hopeful places in moments of narrowminded denial. The woman I came from is a wall away from me, dying. She has precious little time. Her fingers are blue. She cannot swallow. She spends hours having full-length conversations with invisible people, dead people, and dead pets. But she cannot speak with me about anything other than them… who I can’t see or know.
This is a time of great confusion, and the emptiness I have been suffering has been making it so much worse. Finally, tonight, I think I might feel something. I am just remembering.