Sleepless blood...
Sometimes when I’m trying to sleep, my heart keeps me awake. Not figuratively, the actual thumping muscle and gushing liquid life force are audible.
REM cannot be successfully pursued unless my head is resting on my right arm, whilst I lay on my side, an unshakeable habit formed from a relationship that spanned one long cold winter. The big-spoon penalty. On quiet nights when there is no other noise, and the air is as still as a stagnant pond, blood gurgles as it rushes past the un-pierced ear pressing heavily into my arm; en route to my fingertips and back again. I can detect a network of interlaced surface vessels pulsing along my forearms, along with the carotid arteries pumping parallel to one another, fueling their own observation.
On average, around 2am the beating of heart itself overwhelms the sound of ATP circulation. The body has slowed, almost in full resting state, and is on the brink of unconsciousness. The sound is identical to the way it is presented on television. The beating is very steady, and I lazily note the lack of irregularity. As my awareness focuses upon the region, the actual contractions can be felt. And a pool of cold spreads from the center of my chest.
Inexplicably, the longer I focus on the physical sensation of my heart moving, the more it feels like ice water is pouring into my ribcage. Strangest of all, my heart feels drunk. Or the whole body is intoxicated in general. Not sensations of dizziness, or confusion. If I run after imbibing alcohol, or perform any kind of exercise, I’ve noticed when my customary level of endurance is exceeded the accompanying muscle burn is absent, or dulled, like the rest of the nervous system.
Observing the heartbeat is like that. The muscle feels fine, but I’m convinced that after all the work it’s done the organ ought to hurt. An avid exerciser, both aerobic and non-aerobic, I become absolutely staggered at how incomparable to every other muscle the heart’s stamina is. Logically, I think, yes, the heart actually provides the oxygen that fuels each muscle, making it literally impossible for it to be surpassed by its dependent organs (aka, the whole body) and unless somehow defective, will labor without cease for a lifetime. Intellectually everyone knows this.
But lying there and actually observing, nay, experiencing the physical sensation caused by constant contractions of cardiac muscle fiber becomes startling. After selecting a random start point, I begin counting off where other muscle would fail. Biceps, ten….ok pectorals twenty minutes…now deltoids at thirty five. Quadriceps…there go the hamstrings, jeezus, those can last a couple hours. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump…cold and seemingly unstoppable.
I glance at the clock. 3:44am. The fading night may be chilly, but I reach over and turn on the fan. The humming blades drown out my heart. My chest grows warm again and gradually I drift asleep.
Every time when I’m trying to sleep, my heart keeps me alive. Not figuratively.
REM cannot be successfully pursued unless my head is resting on my right arm, whilst I lay on my side, an unshakeable habit formed from a relationship that spanned one long cold winter. The big-spoon penalty. On quiet nights when there is no other noise, and the air is as still as a stagnant pond, blood gurgles as it rushes past the un-pierced ear pressing heavily into my arm; en route to my fingertips and back again. I can detect a network of interlaced surface vessels pulsing along my forearms, along with the carotid arteries pumping parallel to one another, fueling their own observation.
On average, around 2am the beating of heart itself overwhelms the sound of ATP circulation. The body has slowed, almost in full resting state, and is on the brink of unconsciousness. The sound is identical to the way it is presented on television. The beating is very steady, and I lazily note the lack of irregularity. As my awareness focuses upon the region, the actual contractions can be felt. And a pool of cold spreads from the center of my chest.
Inexplicably, the longer I focus on the physical sensation of my heart moving, the more it feels like ice water is pouring into my ribcage. Strangest of all, my heart feels drunk. Or the whole body is intoxicated in general. Not sensations of dizziness, or confusion. If I run after imbibing alcohol, or perform any kind of exercise, I’ve noticed when my customary level of endurance is exceeded the accompanying muscle burn is absent, or dulled, like the rest of the nervous system.
Observing the heartbeat is like that. The muscle feels fine, but I’m convinced that after all the work it’s done the organ ought to hurt. An avid exerciser, both aerobic and non-aerobic, I become absolutely staggered at how incomparable to every other muscle the heart’s stamina is. Logically, I think, yes, the heart actually provides the oxygen that fuels each muscle, making it literally impossible for it to be surpassed by its dependent organs (aka, the whole body) and unless somehow defective, will labor without cease for a lifetime. Intellectually everyone knows this.
But lying there and actually observing, nay, experiencing the physical sensation caused by constant contractions of cardiac muscle fiber becomes startling. After selecting a random start point, I begin counting off where other muscle would fail. Biceps, ten….ok pectorals twenty minutes…now deltoids at thirty five. Quadriceps…there go the hamstrings, jeezus, those can last a couple hours. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump…cold and seemingly unstoppable.
I glance at the clock. 3:44am. The fading night may be chilly, but I reach over and turn on the fan. The humming blades drown out my heart. My chest grows warm again and gradually I drift asleep.
Every time when I’m trying to sleep, my heart keeps me alive. Not figuratively.