I can't sleep. Ever.
I spend my day languidly going through the motions, half asleep and fully functioning to others - minimal in my mind. Lack of proper sleep a constant in my life since grade school. Constantly accused of staring at people, honestly not. I'm thinking, imagining and looking at things through a foggy window of sleepless perception. My mind elsewhere but the actions on point. Rarely a day dreamer, more a day altered reality.
I think of what is and what could be within seconds of actions happening. I get home and toss my bag, take off my shoes and make some tea. Sandwich again for dinner and no television. Read a German Vogue and sift through junk mail. It's then 10 p.m. and my eyes start to droop. Ready for sleep, pajama pants on, washed faced and lotioned arms. Read the book. Write in the page for the day. Cat on my chest, clawing my arms.
Light is off. Then it begins.
Twisting tales through my life, conjured memories that refuse to fade. Daydreams and daynightmares of what has been, what would be, what could be and what maybe could have been. I alter one event and imagine the rest of my life, I take back one instant and relive things as they could have happened. Stories emerge not my own, not relating to me but pure fabrications of my imagination. I find myself isolated in a world of thought, impossible to slow and incurable to let go. Counting anything does not help, as counting makes it worse. Only gives a beat to the incurable ramblings of my late night mind.
Past pictures in my head...floating to eternity. Images flash that always do, my room as a child, the smell of my house growing up, the voice of my uncle telling me to "toughen up" and the taste of grilled cheese on a summer day. The squirrel in the yard, the swing that would sway in the fall and my blue bike that disappeared one day. My mom's red Honda with the cola stains, spraying my friends with the hose and eating ham sandwiches on the porch under my climbing tree.
I try to recall other days that aren't so clear. Flashes of laughter and beer bottles, bon fires and whiskey shots. Loud techno on the highway at 5 a.m., incontrollable laughter, freedom of thought and only living for the time that was there. Mornings after, headaches and strangers - wishing to be done - but not imagining any other reality.
I'm not quite sure how I eventually do fall asleep, but it's now 2 a.m.
That's when the dreams start.
Full color and vibrant, filled with action - themes of water, houses, and beds. Often drowning or hiding, people there representing others, no talking only seeing. Sometimes through my own eyes, other times floating in the corner watching myself. Blues, reds, greens, yellows, pinks, greens and browns. I wake up exhausted and weary, so full of action that I never feel rested. Never scared, these dreams will shape my whole day - sometimes telling what will happen - other times trying to make sense of the past. Some stay with me for days, remembering each detail. The color of the shirt, the feel of the hand, the look in the eyes or the smell that was there. Often a power struggle, often a feeling of loss, and usually someone standing there that is dear. Sometimes looking for someone, sometimes hiding and never a conclusion from either.
I spend my day languidly going through the motions, half asleep and fully functioning to others - minimal in my mind. Lack of proper sleep a constant in my life since grade school. Constantly accused of staring at people, honestly not. I'm thinking, imagining and looking at things through a foggy window of sleepless perception. My mind elsewhere but the actions on point. Rarely a day dreamer, more a day altered reality.
I think of what is and what could be within seconds of actions happening. I get home and toss my bag, take off my shoes and make some tea. Sandwich again for dinner and no television. Read a German Vogue and sift through junk mail. It's then 10 p.m. and my eyes start to droop. Ready for sleep, pajama pants on, washed faced and lotioned arms. Read the book. Write in the page for the day. Cat on my chest, clawing my arms.
Light is off. Then it begins.
Twisting tales through my life, conjured memories that refuse to fade. Daydreams and daynightmares of what has been, what would be, what could be and what maybe could have been. I alter one event and imagine the rest of my life, I take back one instant and relive things as they could have happened. Stories emerge not my own, not relating to me but pure fabrications of my imagination. I find myself isolated in a world of thought, impossible to slow and incurable to let go. Counting anything does not help, as counting makes it worse. Only gives a beat to the incurable ramblings of my late night mind.
Past pictures in my head...floating to eternity. Images flash that always do, my room as a child, the smell of my house growing up, the voice of my uncle telling me to "toughen up" and the taste of grilled cheese on a summer day. The squirrel in the yard, the swing that would sway in the fall and my blue bike that disappeared one day. My mom's red Honda with the cola stains, spraying my friends with the hose and eating ham sandwiches on the porch under my climbing tree.
I try to recall other days that aren't so clear. Flashes of laughter and beer bottles, bon fires and whiskey shots. Loud techno on the highway at 5 a.m., incontrollable laughter, freedom of thought and only living for the time that was there. Mornings after, headaches and strangers - wishing to be done - but not imagining any other reality.
I'm not quite sure how I eventually do fall asleep, but it's now 2 a.m.
That's when the dreams start.
Full color and vibrant, filled with action - themes of water, houses, and beds. Often drowning or hiding, people there representing others, no talking only seeing. Sometimes through my own eyes, other times floating in the corner watching myself. Blues, reds, greens, yellows, pinks, greens and browns. I wake up exhausted and weary, so full of action that I never feel rested. Never scared, these dreams will shape my whole day - sometimes telling what will happen - other times trying to make sense of the past. Some stay with me for days, remembering each detail. The color of the shirt, the feel of the hand, the look in the eyes or the smell that was there. Often a power struggle, often a feeling of loss, and usually someone standing there that is dear. Sometimes looking for someone, sometimes hiding and never a conclusion from either.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment