May 24, 2011

bad rituals

The horizontal strip of exposed window above my curtains does not allow me to sleep past 8 am. Though the black curtains hush the morning light from anything more than a faint hum, still that damn slat of light insists itself upon my consciousness. I should do something about it but I don't. Black curtains are drastic enough. The idea of blocking out all the light somehow feels more depressing than the insomnia it inflicts. If I can go back to sleep, and wake up feeling anything at all, I think it will be an alright day. That repentant drift back into futile sleep for an hour or two. My silver screening. It only works if I want it to.

I don't remember the dreams I have, but I wake up with scratches on my arms and chest. Small insistent lines already scabbed, scrawling no messages, just a vague evidence. That at one point I was dreaming maybe, that at one point there was injury with no insult. They won't leave a scar. None of this will.

I tag along with the idea of waking up, until I'm awake and waiting. Until I'm hiding and seeking. Until my heart beats and bellows. The most difficult part of this is that all I want to do is get on with the day, and all it wants to do is search itself out. It's looking for the bit it's left behind or can't remember. Like misplaced glasses that are already perched on top of your head. Like mismatched socks. A crooked bobby pin. There's bags of sand in its place, holding down the fort.
I just don't have it in me to tell it where that is. I don't have it in me to take it back. Not by force anyway, and certainly not by folly.

Just wait, I say. Wait and you won't even remember you've forgotten. Because you won't get it back. Leave it where it chose to go. You can watch the horizon every morning, but it's always going to be the same silver screen. Sooner or later, the curtains will be enough. And I'll have slept the whole night through it.

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