I’m awake, I’m tired, and I’m getting older by the minute. I can see it in my hands and on my face. There’s a small earth quaking in my belly, and I can’t get a read on it. But it prevents me from sleeping, which is all that really matters at 12:52 a.m.
I feel immobilized right now. By something chilly in my head and in my heart. But that’s all I know about it.
Something’s wrong. Rather, something’s not right in the universe. In my universe. It could be a myriad of real things, or it could be a glut of imagined circumstances. I lean toward reality, but I don’t always live in it. So it’s hard to say.
Neko Case’s “The Needle Has Landed” won’t vacate the annals of my brain. I mean, for weeks now. I haven’t tried very diligently to eradicate it, but I expected it’d leave eventually. Neko is amazing and brilliant and would be my girlfriend if I liked girls, but seriously, is the everlasting gobstopper presence of this song trying to tell me something?
I hear my neighbor moving around in his apartment, creak-creak-creaking along the old wooden floors of this sinking little home, and it feels like a ghost tiptoeing through mine. Although I know better, it unsettles me. But the things that go bump in the night are nothing compared to the thoughts that run ’round my head in the day.
My cat has decided that I’m a worthy buttress for his nighttime nap. Now I can’t possibly move myself to the bed. I suppose that’s simply another excuse, but I’m looking for justification here at 1:07 a.m. on a school night.
I wish someone would wash my face, brush my teeth, and remove my contacts for me. I know that’d jump start the slumber. Alas, I’m thirty years old, and unless I contract that responsibility out to someone else for substantial financial resources, I’m most likely the only one enlisted for the job.
Already, I’m thinking, “What else could I write about? Perhaps I should make a list!” I do enough list-making in my writing these days. And look at these neatly-spaced, nicely-topic-ed brief paragraphs. They’re so close to lists, even lists’ mother would get them confused.
In all the madness you see spewed above, I do believe I have pinpointed the cause of my insomnia, and they are trifold: skepticism, doubt, and disappointment. Three separate situations, to a degree, but more precisely, two related and one isolated. I am not certain which weighs on me more heavily. I simply know that, at 1:13 a.m., exactly none of them are resolvable right now.