SLEEP?
I
miss sleep. SO much. I stalk sleep – I plot and plan and drift, but
no sight of slumber. It's been so long since I've encountered lovely
sleep that I fear I shall never see sleep again.
Eventually,
I suppose we shall all see sleep. For always. When sleep eludes as
effortlessly as an unwanted friend, it's the permanent midnight we
dream of. How sad.
Sleep
is a barometer of wakefulness. What we are feeling, thinking, doing,
wishing, wondering … if sleep avoids us, we are avoiding something
else. Denial only denies more sleep. Yearning only leads to more
yearning. Sleep plays the persist/resist game better than any other
illusion. The more we want, the more we think about it, the less
likely we are to glimpse the vision.
I
took pills – until they stopped working. I stayed on a schedule –
that eventually scheduled me … off.
I
stayed up, I exercised, I meditated, I read. Nothing worked. Except
escalation of anger, because I've lost something I cherish. Restful
sleep.
This
malady is not uncommon to writers. Or other creative types that are
thus so because they can't sleep. I know that, and I wanted to be a
writer, so sleeping will not return unless I'm willing to relinquish
the pen. And I can't. Cray-cray is my new normal and it denounces
sound decision making, you know, like do I want this or that? What
day is it? Am I doing the right thing? What's that burning? Oh, it's
just my life going up in smoke. Without sleep.
Occasionally,
when my punitive grief gives up the ghost and I accidentally lull
towards a lullaby, nightmares replace once vivid and vibrantly
beautiful dreams and jar me awake to the excoriation of a
self-examined existence. It's not pretty. The mirror reflects endings
rather than beginnings. All frayed endings.
My
new sleep is like a rotisserie. Tossing and turning and never quite
done. Restless. Recalcitrant. Revolving through twisted sheets and
tormented thoughts. I can't get my brain to turn off. Useless as it
is.
All
that's left is anger. And questions. Where did sleep go? Does it miss
me? Does it think about me too? Does it secretly search me in the
night?
Will
I ever see sleep again? Eventually, I suppose I shall. It may come
too late for any dreams.
Maybe
it's the dreaming I really miss.
