The Lucid Life


Photo by Eike Klingspohn on Unsplash


I just want to sleep.

After laying there for an hour or two, contemplating all the things that I have done wrong, all the things that could go wrong and all the wrongs done to me, I have to force myself to think of something benign (coffee cups, turtles, The Carpenters) to bore my brain into sleep.

Then, when my eyes are closed and I am slipping away, only then, do I feel like I may actually be truly happy.  Even in soggy, dark dreams, thick with malice, I know there is a way out, around or through.

That life, when my eyes close and my head sinks deep into my pillow is so unlike the waking life of heartache and unfortunate events that bury me deep under mucky clumps of heavy earth, crushing my heart, flattening my lungs as it does so easily.  Dreaming of demons or devils, monsters or madmen, people I miss and people I will never know, all of it makes me cling to every last second of that sleepy-time fantasy world.

I know I can dip in and out of this precious space, never really losing anything, never really winning anything, but experiencing everything.  Is that the definition of a coward? Or is this malaise a symptom of one fucked up event after another filling up my calendar? This endless staircase of hurt is exhausting.

First world problems…I know.


Waiting to Drown

The tea is cold. And there is noting worse than cold tea that was supposed to be hot, and sooth your voice and warm your chest.  I am leaching out into the water and soon there will be nothing left but a useless bag…bitter and ugly, ready to be tossed into the bin. I can’t float, and every day I am more and more useless.

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