Post 024: I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each
I am sleep deprived and delusional. That is the only explanation for my impulse upon looking in the mirror.
'I'm looking particularly insomniac-like this fine pre-dawn moment. It's almost breakfast; may as well forget sleep and hit the caf for some Earl Grey and the Imprint until everyone else wakes up.'
It's sad that that was my impulse so often last year. How many mornings did I not sleep, look in my vanity mirror at my tight pale face and think 'the application of tea is the only thing going to get my sorry arse through this day'? If I'd half-closed my eyes and turned off the glaring bathroom light, it could have been my dorm room.
I think that's half my problem these days: glaring lights. I go to sleep in Dave's bed all cosy and dark with the moonlight streaming in the curtain-free window most times, but wake up to the horrible sensation of daylight stabbing me in the face. I've never done well with bright lights in any case. The Sun is the natural enemy of those with Irish heritage, particularly if we've been having a nip into the alcohol, or happen to bare our (oh so delicate and pale) skin beneath its stabby gaze. Stupid stabby Sun with its light and shining and owwieness.
If I ever offer to duel the Sun under the influence of alcohol, don't worry; I'm just offering to get it back for all the back (and eye) stabbing it has harmed me with. I have no idea how many awful sunburns I've gotten over the years.
Well it is official: I am delirious. Maybe I should sleep before work at eleven this morning. Oh dear that leaves me four hours. Merde. Oh wait no I don't work for another twelve hours, sweet. I don't think I slept Friday night/Saturday morning. This may be why I am being an idiot on the internet.
Goodnight.
Bee
And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawled out on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
--Eliot, T.S. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
'I'm looking particularly insomniac-like this fine pre-dawn moment. It's almost breakfast; may as well forget sleep and hit the caf for some Earl Grey and the Imprint until everyone else wakes up.'
It's sad that that was my impulse so often last year. How many mornings did I not sleep, look in my vanity mirror at my tight pale face and think 'the application of tea is the only thing going to get my sorry arse through this day'? If I'd half-closed my eyes and turned off the glaring bathroom light, it could have been my dorm room.
I think that's half my problem these days: glaring lights. I go to sleep in Dave's bed all cosy and dark with the moonlight streaming in the curtain-free window most times, but wake up to the horrible sensation of daylight stabbing me in the face. I've never done well with bright lights in any case. The Sun is the natural enemy of those with Irish heritage, particularly if we've been having a nip into the alcohol, or happen to bare our (oh so delicate and pale) skin beneath its stabby gaze. Stupid stabby Sun with its light and shining and owwieness.
If I ever offer to duel the Sun under the influence of alcohol, don't worry; I'm just offering to get it back for all the back (and eye) stabbing it has harmed me with. I have no idea how many awful sunburns I've gotten over the years.
Well it is official: I am delirious. Maybe I should sleep before work at eleven this morning. Oh dear that leaves me four hours. Merde. Oh wait no I don't work for another twelve hours, sweet. I don't think I slept Friday night/Saturday morning. This may be why I am being an idiot on the internet.
Goodnight.
Bee
And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawled out on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
--Eliot, T.S. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?