I LIE IN BED

 

I lie in bed. Totally overcome by a persistent flu, and the helpless feeling that comes with a blocked nose is in a word 'unbearable'. I'm not one to complain. I'm one to dream. For it is dreams that give me comfort when I'm bombarded by life's chores, life's cycle of struggle. It is dreams that tell me, reassure me that there is a greater purpose to all this. It is a dream that grabs my arm and whisks me away into a fantastical, flamboyant world of freedom. Where the sun is always shining and the grass is ever green. Where the flowers always flourish and the rivers run blue and clean.

 

 

I dream now, of myself as a bird. Small but swift, singing merrily as I embrace the skies, taking it all in. The rush of air between my feathers. The freedom and unbounded possibility. I can spin and glide and whish as I please. And my very soul smiles. For I am free. Free to chase after the setting sun. Free to sing and dance and be!

Me.

 

 

 

 

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I lie in bed. An untidy bed. In an untidy room. All of which mirrors the inner turmoil that has swept through my mind. Utterly devastating the landscapes of my conscience. Of my being. My inner peace. If the flu is an agent of discourse, the all-consuming avalanche of procrastinated work is a ship-turner. And so, the non-primitive workings of my brain ask, "So why are you lying in bed?"
 

And I have no answer. 

Only the plethora of excuses I have been so keen to devise.

The room has now assumed a grey tint, signaling dusk and the loss of another day to say, “I’m finally done with work!"

And for the umpteenth time I wonder, and doubt as to the existence of such a moment.

I clear my throat and rub my eyes. My face flashed, as though from a steam room.

Sigh. They say silence is therapeutic, balancing; but at times like this it is nothing short of the contrary. It is mocking, unsettling, and every tick of the alarm clock beside me is another piece of me, scraped away by the cold unforgiving silence.

 

RANDOM RAMBLINGS OF AN INSOMNIAC

Risen from the ashes of silence. That's one way of describing my return to blogging (after my 40 days in the wilderness).

In a sense, it is almost consequential. Why? Well, at the moment it's pitch dark, with the drowning monotonic screech of crickets, the occasional bark of a lonely dog, and, of course, the breathy mechanical 'respiration' of my computer, all enveloping, intoxicating the atmosphere all around, and in fact perpetuating the inevitable drowsiness I battle.

On the topic, have you had those days when your computer has just been on for days on end, almost wondering, "Boy! I'd be complaining right now!" That's the beauty of machinery. It doesn't necessarily complain (unless perhaps your antivirus is out of date).

So... back to the thought process. I am (so shamelessly) writing as a means of fighting the 'sleep pangs,' which almost ritually come at this very same time EVERY NIGHT... just as sure as the sun doth set.

And so, surrounded by inconceivable clutter all around me in what is the aftermath of my periodic art projects, I lay restless, heavy-eyed and wondering why I, we, have to suffer so much through the (arguably pretentious) drudgery of school and job and family and retirement!

"If only I were my own parent... Oh the things I would do...," I think to myself

In retrospect, and within the orbit of 'If only.." thoughts, I guess I can choose whether to be sad or happy about the outcome, as it is, of my 18 years of 'exo-uterine' (sorry if that sounds too graphic) existence. Yes, a battle is waged almost as soon as we phase out childhood and step into greater self dependence (or, in some cases, independence). A battle between blaming everyone and everything for our seemingly damaged selves... and deciding to love ourselves as we are.

To quote a philosophical prodigy, "You can only reach perfection in the frame of imperfection."

Our world is imperfect and varied. In consequence, t's okay to be you, flaws and all. After all, there was, is, and will certainly never be another you.

Anyway, there's a lot to say and express... as you could imagine from a blogger risen from extended recluse.

So.. let's just start with a claim that equates the number of extra hours of the night (in essence, how much of the midnight oil I burn) I spend working, with the measure of stuff, of  will power, within me, just for tonight (for as an eternal claim it would endorse an unhealthy, self-debilitating habit).

Wish me luck!