Twenty minutes of writing. . .
It feels good to feel good.
Every clear breath I took today, even the cold rain turned slush crunching under my too old Timberlands was a joy to me after four days cooped up and delirious.
The only sign that all was not well with me was the deep wet ragged cough that would erupt like a sour tuba every hour or so, or the occasional moment of fatigue accompanied by heat radiating from my overworked inner-engine burning through my clothing until I was a naked star rising up into evening sky - golden glowing and farther away all the time.
My eyes burn, but I am still wary of my bed, fearing that the sleep that seems to be waiting at the door to my bedroom will elude me when it comes time for the task, as it has done so often, recently. The fear makes its object real and I am forced to ask which came first. Is it possible the mere question of sleep crept into my mind one night a few months ago, leering like an uncle everyone knows is no good, but he ends up at the barbeque anyway, and that alone put the fear in me?
It is not that I am suffering from insomnia. I do eventually fall asleep. I am suffering from an expansion of time between getting in bed and that sweet forgetfulness, and it is sweet because there is so much to remember in the interim - so much to consider.
Last night, unable to sleep I scratched out potential lyrics in a little notebook, but today upon examination there was little there worth returning to - and I strummed my guitar weakly - humming softly to myself, “I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing.”
I have nothing.
The one lyric I thought had any promise was, “Having nothing and wanting less, that is sleeplessness.”
Every clear breath I took today, even the cold rain turned slush crunching under my too old Timberlands was a joy to me after four days cooped up and delirious.
The only sign that all was not well with me was the deep wet ragged cough that would erupt like a sour tuba every hour or so, or the occasional moment of fatigue accompanied by heat radiating from my overworked inner-engine burning through my clothing until I was a naked star rising up into evening sky - golden glowing and farther away all the time.
My eyes burn, but I am still wary of my bed, fearing that the sleep that seems to be waiting at the door to my bedroom will elude me when it comes time for the task, as it has done so often, recently. The fear makes its object real and I am forced to ask which came first. Is it possible the mere question of sleep crept into my mind one night a few months ago, leering like an uncle everyone knows is no good, but he ends up at the barbeque anyway, and that alone put the fear in me?
It is not that I am suffering from insomnia. I do eventually fall asleep. I am suffering from an expansion of time between getting in bed and that sweet forgetfulness, and it is sweet because there is so much to remember in the interim - so much to consider.
Last night, unable to sleep I scratched out potential lyrics in a little notebook, but today upon examination there was little there worth returning to - and I strummed my guitar weakly - humming softly to myself, “I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing.”
I have nothing.
The one lyric I thought had any promise was, “Having nothing and wanting less, that is sleeplessness.”