I don’t know how to do anything. How to read, how to watch television, or even how to sleep. All I seem able to do is lie uncomfortably in a bed kicking off sheets and socks and thrashing at the heat. My brain is sorting ideas and thirsting for images to absorb and words to combine into thoughts. But it’s boring. How? Why?
My hair is itching my neck. My eyes aren’t willing to shut. My imagination won’t slow down long enough for a proper fantasy to slip me into lucid dreams. I want to kiss the boy! Oh dear. I hear little crabs and creatures in the forest of my belly cackling. The witch is at my lips, pruning on her stump.
I’m begging my pillow to soften up.
I implore my window to peep and the air conditioning to moan a little. But all that happens are some neighbors slamming their car doors. So I dangle my toes of the bed. Hopefully they might entice the monster to eat me. No luck.
I’ve always been a horrible shepherd and have long lost my herd of sheep. Remembering their names was too tedious even though they were all numbers. Now I have nothing to count. But I’ve never been good with numbers either. I should have taken the time one night to name them all. Ester, Bart, Fanny, etc until I truly lost count and my eyelids gave up. Until my pillow caught my drool and I swam in and out of nightmares and sunset colored visions.
They’re not here now. I can’t call them and their cloud-like hides to tuck me in. I’m just twisted up in a nest of pillows and am more awake than I was hours before. When the sun was Queen and the bats were resting I too could have slept, maybe. Now I can do nothing but wish with wide eyes to hear those night birds flapping over the muffled conversations of apartment 214 or something. But It’s not the type of white noise to work into a lullaby. It’s like scratching.
At this point I’m flossing through my memories with a desperate string trying to pull out anything sustaining this insomnia. I'm swallowing fear and embarrassment- keen ingredients for a restless night. I want to blow a kiss to all my favorite beings and their faces come to mind. Sneak letters of love under their pillows and place something sweet into their dreams. Wake them up with syrupy harmonies.
But first I want to settle into a pocket of this room. If only I could be made of cotton and pouf and could swing like a rocking chair as the ground disappears. I wish to be swaddled in make believe as winds and streams carry me between crevices of reality.
It seems I can’t sleep however. Perhaps I’m just waiting for someone to whisper goodnight.