I’m not sure if I slept?
I was watching Through the Wormhole at 10ish and feel asleep during that, but woke up at around 11.
Later on at about 2, I started falling asleep again while probably 1/4 of the way through the Digimon Movie (I just felt like watching it for some reason). I think I slept for a little, but then remember waking up at around 5:30. From there on, I drifted from dreams to tossing and turning in my bed. I was so restless that I’m not sure it really counted as sleep. By 9, my phone alarm went off but I was already in my awoken stupor.
So, I don’t know, man.
I need to finish watching the Digimon Movie.
I still smell like shower. This is good. I might sleep. Hopefully, I actually sleep when I set out to sleep. This plan hasn’t been executed properly in the last two nights. NEARLY 3 IN THE MORNING AND TIME FOR BED.
I didn’t sleep well last night. I got into bed and turned the light off and then all these images started flashing around my head. This restlessness and these thoughts would not let me be. The thing is, I liked what my mind created. I liked what was imagined. What made this inability to sleep frustrating was the way in which the thoughts did more harm than good. Maybe too good, I suppose. Maybe far fetched, unrealistic, but deeply desired. Bliss laced in torture. Tribulations mixed with delight. Delirious. Delusional. Giddy. Albatross, albatross, albatross. I wonder where this sore throat manifested from. The stuffy nose as well, I suppose. I say I’ll start painting but I won’t. I say I’ll say thing but I won’t. I say I believe things that I don’t. Am I making sense? Did I ever have to? Was that a necessity or a belief? Sometimes I believe in promise of the past reoccurring and sometimes I believe in being a scrap poem in a waste bin. There is promise in both. I guess I could be a bottle collecting coins, getting heavier with each clank of change. I’m a collection of shattered vases withering in a sea bed. I’m 713.8 °F. I’m a carpenter ant in a light fixture. I’m the back of a head in the background of a picture. I’m the sound of a lobster screaming when plunged into boiling water. I’m the person that says “Actually, lobsters don’t scream so you’re a stupid fuck.”. I’m moth’s wings without powder. I’m a metaphor that makes no sense. I’m a metaphor that makes perfect sense. I’m none of these. I’m sitting alone in my house typing on a laptop I’ve had for four years. I am not painting. I am not running. I am not talking. I am simply looking at the shorts on the floor and an ant skittering on the hardwood beneath me. I’m hoping I sleep better tonight.
I’m so paranoid right now. I feel like I’m getting bitten all over my legs as I’m in bed and I’m afraid that there are bugs in my bed that want to poison me and kill me. I’m serious. This shit isn’t good. I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep.
I sure as hell over slept.
I was trying to watch a movie last night and I can’t even remember which one it was, but then I woke up at 2 in the morning and it was over. So I went back to sleep, and woke up at 2:15 in the afternoon.
This is unrelated, but last night I went to my school’s spring concert and the chorus was singing. There are a lot of girls in our schools chorus and for some reason it sort of just hit me. I leaned back, staring blankly at the motion of their jaws moving in unison, and thought “They all have vaginas”. Like, I go to an all girls school and it took me four years to think of that? It’s not the first time that something like that has crossed my mind. During lunch, I’ve thought about how many girls in the cafeteria were on their period or what part of their cycle they may be on. But, like, THERE IS A LOT OF VAGINA EVERYWHERE.
And I wonder why I think about sex in Calculus class or during my English forty minute essays or kind of anywhere. It must be the overwhelming vaginal influence surrounding me all the time.
What the fuck am I talking about?
When I crawled into bed last night, I wasn’t into the whole “sleeping” thing. I really wanted to be doing something, or anything, just to keep my hands busy or my mouth moving or my eyes watching. Just something. I started drawing circles on the sheets with my fingers. I wanted so badly to break the darkness with the flicking of a light switch, pull out my sketch book, the dull pencil with the planets and rocket ships on it, spotted eraser, and start drawing. I didn’t though. Sleep was good. Sleep is good. I needed sleep. I’d be glad I’d slept in the morning. If I couldn’t draw, I was going to do something. I sang “You Wouldn’t Like Me” while lying on my side and mapping swirling motions onto the green floral-print sheet. It’s really hard to even remember what the sheets look like from underneath the comforter. I had to take a peek to be accurate. To be honest, you really can’t tell, neither do you care about, what the sheets look like while the room is dark and your glasses are off. I didn’t know this until last weekend, but I’m legally blind. That’s pretty rad.
And so, to resume where I last left off, I finished singing the song. Rolling over, I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling. Passing cars gave birth to racing stripes of light across the room, streaming from behind window blinds. I watched for a bit, then began drumming my right hand against my chest. I’ve got a bass line now. Opening my mouth, I starting singing. Something. Anything. I can somewhat remember a single lyric: “I let you inside me.” Something about having another person inside of a person is interesting if you think about it in a sexual, physical, mentally, or emotionally way. It’s strange because as I sing and make up lines that hardly rhyme, I almost immediately forget the line I sang before. I tried to once, but I had no recollection of what I had said nearly five seconds before. When I start free styling these things, I’m really not thinking and the words don’t make sense and I tend to forget. I play with the beat a bit, running the nails of my left hand against the white painted wicker frame of my bed. I drum counter beats. I sing. I make it all up as I go along. There is a time in all this that I stop. My fidgeting fingers and brain and larynx have been satisfied, I suppose.