Akin to this, almost, is the heaviness of insomnia. Maybe the reliability; it's so consistent. It never really goes away. The stillness of the darkness, stirring alone, eyes too weighty to think clearly or allow for focus. It's the kind of tired that becomes so dense it's self sustaining; too tired to sleep, too tired to do much else. Again, similar, is hunger. Being so hungry that you stop being hungry at all. Physical emptiness, which in itself is somehow filling.
Likely this makes little to no sense to anyone other than myself, but I'm not out to win an audience. In theory one could argue that I should be, but in keeping with tradition, "should" does not mean enough to engender action.
Giving it any reflection whatsoever, I posit it's all about constants. I realize I've already touched on this, and maybe under different circumstances I'd be compelled to better organize my thoughts, but I'm enervated. Quite the opposite of how bleak this is likely to be perceived, I find great relief in these predictable discomforts. There's a transcendence; the void becomes the substance. Does that make any sense? Does it matter?
Tonight is no different from the countless nights before it, be it at fourteen watching Cartoon Planet and The Tick until dawn, or staring upwards for hours at a cracked Brooklyn ceiling at twenty-seven. The night's forthcoming offer equal predictability.You feel the same. It's grounding.
Whenever that first glint of blue sneaks back into the horizon my gut lurches. Much like I dread going to sleep, if possible, on Sundays. Knowing things are starting again, humming for participation.
I imagine this is taken as melancholic, but so it goes. I take my peace where I can find it. I will deal with the dark circles later.
 |
Ce qui embellit le désert, dit le petit prince, c'est qu'il cache un puits quelque part.
What makes the desert beautiful," says the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well."