Every night I wage a war. The enemy crawls into the room and begins its familiar bombardment, first with feathers and then with rubber bullets. In a matter of minutes I’m surrounded by fire breathing dragons screaming with urgency – I must enter their realm. I refuse, at least for a few more hours. It’s about the fight, yet I don’t even know where my objection starts in me. This battle makes no sense and doesn’t do me any good. But somehow, Sleep has become my enemy.
Its army comes at me as if I’m expecting it. Like I’ll throw myself at their mercy once the grenades are thrown. I shake my head and pop my lids open again, a yawn stretches me but I stay connected to the wakeful world … with my eyes.
Two days ago I went to the eye doctor and he tells me I have slight cataracts in my left eye and the onset of macular degeneration in my right. What’s left to fight with if I don’t have my eyes? The monster approaches tonight and my weapons start to ache.
All these years, for reasons I don’t comprehend, I fought sleep off. It isn’t insomnia; it’s a conscientious, albeit an underground and seditiously layered response. My mind wants to stay rapt with the happenings of the day or the fantasies I’ve missed while doing the responsible job thing. It wants to read new depths and experience different worlds, scan new perspectives and flex different thoughts. It’s crosshairs are a pair of blue peepers I’ve had since I was born. Now the weapons of choice are losing their effectiveness yet the enemy is in no way breaking its stride.
It certainly occurs to me (on a regular basis, should you question my clarity on this matter) – sleep would assuredly heal my situation, or at a minimum slow this eye-death process. Would that I could allow myself to be taken prisoner. To surrender. The sheets and the pillow call my weary body. Why can’t I give in? Shell shock? Post traumatic stress syndrome?
But I still fight. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop this madness. No doubt if I could just figure out what started this war for me, I’d be able to agree to a cease-fire, draw up a peace plan. Resolve to do what’s best for my sanity.
Alas, I fear that peace may never come.
the wideness of my headspace
yawns the hunger open
the coffee slides
sly glances of bright outside
push into my groggy
cold whispers my skin
where to begin
a magic show swallowed my genius
disappeared my idea bodies
scratching inward i dig for the prisoners
dreaded yearnings seek
for letters ... words ...
a string of story
to explain my empty.
It is with deep regret that the author informs you (in verse) …
there is nothing.
my heart cannot tell you
what my soul declines to loose
and my mind considers refuse
when the time ticks pock marks
in the chalk marks
around my dead hope.
i trust elsewhere
there is strength of will
where exists fortitude -
a dimension without latitude
for any volume of fragility
no amount of civility
for lame excuses.
but tonight ...
on this section
of the fabric of time,
and here ...
past the inflection
of my flattened rhyme,
there is nothing.
I’m haunted by the ghost of my inner me. In the wee small hours of the morning, when there’s no one to tell you to get your ass to bed, a virus takes hold and strangles your brain. Schedules, routines – such mundane and tedious stalwarts of responsibility. Can anyone relate when I write – sometimes we just don’t want what we need. We just don’t want them so badly that we reject them like the plague and grasp at other worlds of adventure like, “What’s in the fridge?” and “what’s the lyrics of that song in my head?”
Perhaps this is what becomes of not bearing children and maturing into older years having only ever concerned myself with the needs of another adult. Caring for myself not as a person who must go on for the rearing and survival of a small brood, but as a semi-independent partner. When the chips are down and sleep is essential, I have some kind of alter-ego that whips into action and stirs my brain, revs my sluggishness, and prevents a restful nature. It’s almost as if there’s a war and some part of me is fighting, but against whom or what – and even if my ghost wins I lose.
The road will tell me why. Here’s praying that caffeine and a direction will sane me up.
**Note to my faithful followers – it’s been so long. I have hope for the future of my writing after a couple of co-workers unknowingly talked an “intervention” my way today. Stress. Homesickness. Heartache. Upsidedowness. But I can see the saddle; it’s in my cross hairs. I’m going to get back in it. Please stick with me.
It lulls me and coos. It strokes my heartbeat and calms my go. It turns off messy noise and folds in the sound of the air vent and the distant airplane to whip up a symphonic lullaby. This is the lingering sleepiness after I wake up that tries to suck me back in and miss the day, or at least the morning.
Like a forgotten lover, my shrugged off sleep whispers me longingly to touch it again. “Don’t leave me,” it says as I try to move on. “Come back to me,” desperately singing it’s song. And after I stand and reach for my next, it bitters up and acts spurned. That’s when it sends in its cousin to protect its honor; so fatigue wracks my shoulders. My back needs a stretch and my joints feel so old.
Coffee. You new and wonderful fling. I want you to be my trophy-wife now.
English: A photo of a cup of coffee. Esperanto: Taso de kafo. Français : Photo d’une tasse de caffé Español: Taza de café (Photo credit: Wikipedia)