Not Drunk, Just Sleepy
Water dripping through my future widow's peak onto the hand scratching my nose, looking for a route past the chin, edging around mouth and staying as I write just below my head's shadow. Minutes ago I washed my face in the sink, the same one I've been meaning to clean for weeks, it's becoming pitted-stained, the steel sink in my kitchen/dining room/antechamber/vestibule long fell into disuse - I don't trust brown metal near my water. In the same way that I don't trust my left arm, the one I may have fractured a few years ago, that's the the one I watch first, after my face I mean, the face and more specifically the eyes always gets my first glance. Your pardon if I fall in love a bit more every time those crazy bastard not quite cro-magnum browed wonders.
Too many adjectives? I've never been clear on the proper ratio. In my world every word has a million adjectives but only one correct way to be named, a way I only find in the minutes before sleep. I learned early that it is possible to lie after the lights are quiet, doors closed, blinds drawn (does that mean up or down?), pillow shaped into a slight slope with no pressure placed on the arm that sometimes stretches away from my shoulder and under the pillow. It is possible to lie like that and be ready for sleep, realize that being ready for sleep means being ready for the next day, realize then that sleep doesn't matter because won't I just think it's night time and then understand it's daytime, be rested without knowing how? And if that doesn't exist, what of the transition point? What happens when water sinks below 1 degree celcius but above 0 degrees? You could watch it happen I think, and then sleep doesn't happen for hours as it waits for me to give up.
Sleep is like Santa Claus.
In this analogy, each drop of writing is hidden in a present, and I'm waiting for sleep, imagining writing in the future, so easy to imagine when I'm exiled from keyboard.
Or the night in general, the streets, the people I see halo'd by daygrown flaws in the contacts I've worn for the last hours. Doesn't matter how many hours, strangely, the flaws exist when the people do, characters ariving like road signs along Appalachian roads.
Too many adjectives? I've never been clear on the proper ratio. In my world every word has a million adjectives but only one correct way to be named, a way I only find in the minutes before sleep. I learned early that it is possible to lie after the lights are quiet, doors closed, blinds drawn (does that mean up or down?), pillow shaped into a slight slope with no pressure placed on the arm that sometimes stretches away from my shoulder and under the pillow. It is possible to lie like that and be ready for sleep, realize that being ready for sleep means being ready for the next day, realize then that sleep doesn't matter because won't I just think it's night time and then understand it's daytime, be rested without knowing how? And if that doesn't exist, what of the transition point? What happens when water sinks below 1 degree celcius but above 0 degrees? You could watch it happen I think, and then sleep doesn't happen for hours as it waits for me to give up.
Sleep is like Santa Claus.
In this analogy, each drop of writing is hidden in a present, and I'm waiting for sleep, imagining writing in the future, so easy to imagine when I'm exiled from keyboard.
Or the night in general, the streets, the people I see halo'd by daygrown flaws in the contacts I've worn for the last hours. Doesn't matter how many hours, strangely, the flaws exist when the people do, characters ariving like road signs along Appalachian roads.
posted by Fifth at 11:42 PM
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