Soundzine

Curious Shadows

                 Curious shadows fall across the key lime paint, dulled by the darkness falling, out of doors.  The moon will rise soon, and this I know with a gentle certainty.

                Thoughts begin to loom across the ceiling as I try to catch the last of my bottled-up sanity.  I know I should be trying to sleep.  Sleep is healthy.  Sleep is normal.

                 I begin counting the grains of my nocturnal predisposition dancing on the wall.  As predicted, the task is boring, but feels obligatory.  There are far too many nights for which my devotion has found itself misused on these menial tasks.  Simple, less worthy things as they are, buy time until the sun punctures the hillsides again.  Sunrises seem taken, like most things, for granite; as though they might always be there for one to revel in.  Life does not hold stone’s glorious permanence.  Blink.  Blink it away. It will spiral like thick, gurgling water washing down a shower drain.

                 With the knowledge that life as I know it lasts only as long as eyes blinking, it could be figured that I might choose to waste not.  But then again, one could figure many things.

                 The ponderings of post-3AM are heavy, as often these are the underlying reasons behind why sleep and I yell at each other.  Sleep thinks that I am obsessive and so be it if he’s right—Sleep and I have never agreed on a single thing.  He and I bicker into the wee hours of both night and morning, but his arguments are always petty and one-too-many.  He tells me that I lack affection and so be it if he’s right.  Sleep was always one to kick a man when he’s down, so to hell with believing him.  He promises that if I’m nice then he will stop in for midnight chess, but he never shows.  If I believed that son-of-a-bitch once it might be fair, but twice would be a foolish shame.

                 Cold fingertips sing out the loneliness that has navigated through my bloodstream.  I curse myself for not feeling comfortable.  I’m never comfortable alone.  I’m never really comfortable around people, either.  Decidedly, I curse myself again and proclaim myself a walking contradiction.  Cursed by both the English and German that explodes from my lips and by my indecisive nature, I roll over.

                 My eyelids fight to stay open, but I want so badly to shut them.  It wouldn’t matter.  I see things with them open, but I see far worse things when they’re closed.  Things flash with swiftness that no speedometer could possibly capture.  Morbid things, like the usual.  When you dream about death, and you see it when your eyelids meet, there is very little motivation behind sleep.

                 Eyes closed, I start to drift, but my will is not in it.  I shake myself awake.  Where is the tea?  I need caffeine again because I believe I’ve run out.

                As I’m fetching my mug—the one decorated with inspiring quotations, I rerun the footage that my retinas have perfectly preserved for further inspection.  A truck is rolling across a highway, and the framework is starting to close in around me.  I remember that dream, and I do survive it.  But it makes me wish so badly that I might never have to close my eyes again, because I usually see much worse.  He teases me because he is full aware that I am defenseless—as I said, he likes to kick a man when he’s down.

                Sleep, like my father, likes to argue my worthlessness on subtle levels.  He doesn’t consider I’ll ever catch on.  He’d be lying if he said I don’t waste my time thinking, but confidence has never been a benefit of discourse with him.