Sleep is the enemy. Something to be fought off like the advances of an obese and drunk woman. Not a drunk woman. Nor an obese woman.
It comes from out of nowhere most of the time. Lurking. Creeping. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting prey. Zapping all strength, mostly of the eyelids. Slowly taking roost in the lungs, causing slower breathing and eventually snoring comes about.
Sometimes fighting it becomes hopeless. So, drinking until passing out becomes an option. Or taking drugs, both prescription and over the counter. NyQuil will take the edge off of any lingering thought if taken at just the right moment.
The actual act of sleep itself is quite a good thing. Dreams fill the mind with wonder and amazement. The soul is free to do the things it never would. Fuck the prom queen. Have a martini with Frank Sinatra while watching Super Bowl III in his suite in Vegas. Jumping from the top of cliff into the Pacific Ocean. All of these things happen in dreams. But so do nightmares.
Some remember everything from sleep. Others nothing but scattered thoughts.
Drifting in and out of sleep usually provides more memories of them. Or the quick jolt of energy that comes with being woken up suddenly.
The one thing that always comes with sleep, however, is the quick passage of time. Night becomes day. Day becomes night. Yesterday becomes today. Today never, however, becomes yesterday. That seems somewhat cruel. To always take away, and never give back.
It’s why this traveler, he never wants to sleep. Turn on the television. Surf the internet. Read a book. Take a long walk. Sit outside in the rain. In the cold. In the sweltering heat. Write some meaningless words in a journal. Answer an e-mail. Write a letter. Think about the past. Never the future.
As sleep wraps itself around the mind, fighting isn’t useless. Caffine will work for a little bit. So will sugar. Loud noise helps. But they all fade into the recesses of dreams. Sleep will win.
“I don’t want to sleep,” the little boy says.
“Why on earth not,” mother asks.
“Because today will end and tomorrow begins,” he replies.
“Silly boy. Why do you feel this way?”
“Because, mommy. I know what is in store for me tomorrow. And I don’t like it.”
“Then do something different,” mom says while smiling and patting his head.
“You won’t let me,” he screams, pulling the covers up to his eyes, but not covering them.
“I will,” she says, cooing in his ear. “Just dream it, and you will do it.”
The boy believes his mother and closes his eyes smiling. As she walks out of the room, his breathing has slowed and he is no longer holding the blanket. It has fallen down towards his chin. She does notice one thing. A frown on his face.
The same frown that’s always there at night. And gone in the morning. That boy has too much on his mind to be so young, she thinks as she turns out the light. Another night on the couch for her. It’s much more home to her than the bed. Her husband snoring the night away. Loud, drunken snores that even the kids complain about. The boy even gets up in the middle of the night to close the door. The door dad never wants closed. She takes the blame for it being closed. And he hits her. But she never lets her son know that. Even though he does know.
I hope he dreams of a better father, she thinks.
Little does she know, he doesn’t dream that. He only dreams of falling. Of laughter. Spiders crawling on his neck. And of lightning.
Oh how he loves lightning. Stands on the porch during violent storms. Running inside when a clap of thunder is too loud. He says he knows when it will strike close. “You can smell it mom,” he says, adamantly.
“Lightning doesn’t smell,” she says, egging him on.
“If I could bottle that smell, I’d let you take a whiff,” he said. “But I’m afraid that if you do that, lightning will find you.”
It seemed very innocent that comment. He was just eight years old. Now, as she stared at him, dressed in a dark blue suit with a balding lawyer with a smushed up nose standing beside him, remembering that day brought a chill to the back of her neck. So bad was that chill, her entire body became covered in goose pimples. Just then, she noticed the judge looking at her. He smiled.
The trial was over. The verdict had been delivered. Now, she wondered if he’d ever sleep again.
No comments:
Post a Comment