"Coffin Sickness, Not A Thing Entirely About Death"

There's sleep in my eyes. It bends my lashes under the weight of being awake. Always in my left eye. I wake up most of the time feeling like I've finally gone blind.

This I feel is the proverbial rock and hard place oft said of. Mine right about now, as I'm redundantly alluding to, amounts to spending away my day on a whole lot of nothing, or, dreaming my day away before I shill some more of my time and energy to work.

If we're feeling generous we can call that a form of charity. I ought to be blessed for donating as much of my time as I do. I don't feel blessed, but name me a Saint that has. Sadly I'm not a Catholic. Not being a Catholic, I don't like my odds of religious Sainthood. Call it sweet dreams if you like. One can't tell from the outside looking in whether I'm trying to thump myself across the face when the coffin sickness comes creeping, or I'm getting a good afternoon's rest for a change. Indistinguishable.

Does it come creeping? I can't tell if it's a gradual thing or a sudden one. Or if it's all dreamy tricks of the mind. I can't move and it feels like I'm dead. It feels like I'm dead, but I'm not asleep. Do with that metaphor what you will.

This piece started off with me staring at my curtains, thinking of that pretty face in Turkey. My curtains are black. That detail isn't important but it helps with the visual. That's all the visual from me you'll get. Obviously a woman is more than a lively face but beasts such as me think in terms of pictures.

Let's you and me write up a soundtrack for my movie thoughts.

I've never met her in person. But I'd like to. I think about it often. A nine hundred dollar ticket. A twenty-two hour flight from a home I've never left into a whole new world that's similar to my own but not quite mine. The cash I've been saving up isn't much but a start's a start.

When I get there, she and I could have ice cream, go for walks, chat each other up about the books we've read or would like to read. Though it should be said that she's much more well read than I could and ever claim to be.

The loose thread winds itself back around, finds itself tied together. Back to square one. Back where it found itself. In the end a thread's still a thread and I don't know how to sew. Here and now, wherever here and now might be at any given moment.

This is life. An unwound spool and not a needle in sight. Between the bunched up sheets, unwashed blanket, the sleepy conundrums and sleep paralysis, I sometimes think she might be the only person I could ever truly love. Blessed contentitude. The sweet serene hidden away between the proverbial rock and hard place. Don't you worry, I'll wash my blanket today.