Sleep doesn’t always provide the respite I am looking for. In the dark warmth of enveloping slumber all is well, despite the sweet mysteries of visiting angels and hallowed lettered tiles that only portend more insecurity, my body hungers for the stillness. But upon awakening the heavy boom of the world projects me back into a place that is full of nothing, an empty gap, inconsequence, and so the day begins.
Much of the morning, or what remains of it is taken up with more waking up, or catching up, or getting up, up, up, up, up. I don’t want up! And that’s not to say I want down, perhaps a little left might do some good, certainly sideways is fun for a while, but like a helium filled balloon the surface is too taut when rising above normal atmospheric pressure.
These balloons are everywhere my eye travels, the many eyes I have are hearing and tasting them too; squeaking and acrid. And even when they’ve been stretched to the point where their very fabric is tattered, sore and worthy of nothing but reforming as Christmas cracker ‘prizes’ these now pointless vessels created with an intention of providing joy are limp, damp and rather ugly.
The afternoon sun of the winter saves any sense of despair, and as the dark replaces the red golden rays I feel a hidden glow again. Heady in the shadows I can smile, and cry and laugh, and stay right where I am.