I can't sleep

The second time in a week, it has come to this.  In the black, impossible night, writing in my head to while away the time as my mind still whirrs with the same activity as in daylight.  I lie here, feeling…wrong.  I’m too hot, too sweaty, my bed clothes are tickling, and I’m too full after a lovely dinner with friends.  As a result – my body appears to have forgotten the need to sleep.

I know that I need this sleep.  I’m awful when I’m tired, as I will be tomorrow – grumpy, slow and inattentive. But, as ever, what you want most you can’t have, and so I resign myself to pretending I’m sleep, with the hope that if I stay still and quiet enough then I’ll trick Somnus into thinking he’s already taken me and I’ll be dreaming.  If I still my muscles enough then maybe my body will stop weighing down with my rough skin pressing against every fold and crumple of the sheets and I’ll trickle into dream - as my mind disorganises, disassembles and dissipates, slipping into the gaps between my cells and between the atoms that form me and I stop being a student worrying about placement the next day and become another dreamer in the strange, free world of the fantastical that we at the same time share and call uniquely our own.

My eyes open in the dark.  I feel as though it should be summer noontime, with a whole day of activity ahead – such a contrast to the immense silence at this time of night. It’s a silence where the distant rumble of a train seems like thunder, a cough from the next room a gunshot.  I breathe in deep as my eyes adjust to this unseen world. There is a sweet scent in the air; I picture the ghostly white night blossom that it must have come from. I can make out shapes in the dark of my room, looming like icebergs made of dark matter.  Some nights this would translate into a waking nightmare, my instinctive terror of the black unknown in overdrive.  On a night like this however, I am too awake for such nonsense.  I play at creating pictures out of the shape as one might make shapes from clouds.  My room is only so big, however, and an alert mind is one that’s easily bored.  I think over the day to come.  Sadly, there’s not much to it, and I know to stay on the vague side of plans lest my wandering mind trips into anxiety, and I have one of THOSE nights. 

All this tires, however, so I just ruminate even more.  Some of my tendrils of inner dialogue start to resonate with the inner voice that I so often misplace.

So I turn off the light and pick up the pen.

Instead of this: the fourth and final installment

(sorry it took a while - you'll know why soon enough)


31)   ...be a personal shopper.
32)   ...be a professional historical reconstructor.
33)   ...be a medical illustrator.
34)   ...be a comic book artist.
35)   ...be a firebreather (is full time dragon an option?)
36)   ...be a professional fanlady (girl sounds too...high pitched)
37)   ...be a woodcarver.
38)   ...be a jewellery maker.
39)   ...be barista in an enormous commercial chain that I can moan about.
40)   ...be a list writer (Buzzfeed have any vacancies?)

As ever, if this inspired you in any way, shape or form - comments plz?

Loose end

IjustwishIwasn’tsuchalooseendwithmy”wherearewegoing”and”whyarewegoing”andleavingearlyandmissingthefunandIwishthatIcouldstayuplateandbefunbutIcan’twhennoonelaughsatmyjokesandnoonewantstohearmystoriesandthenwhenItrytojoininIgetthatlookthatIhadfromtheothersbeforebutthatwasokbecauseIstillhadyoubutnowIgetitfromyouwhydoIhavetogetitfromyouandIwishIdidn’tneedarockIwishIcouldbemyselfandcoolanddaftandmewithouthavingtotakeouttimetobreatheandIwishthatanyofyouevernoticedbecauseyouusedtonoticebutnowitsjustwhatIdoandallIneedisahugandsomeonetotellmethatitsokandyesI’mbeingsillybutthat’sfinebecauseeveryoneisonceinawhlieandjustit’sstoppedfeelinglikeanyofyouwantmethereandIknowthatprobablyI’mbeingsillyandIhopeandIhopeandIhopethatI’mbeingsillybutwhatifI’mnotwhatifyou’realltiredofmelikeyou’vebecometiredofotherpeoplebeforeandifthathappensthenIhopeIcannoticeitandbowoutgracefullybutwhatifIendupallaloneandIalreadyjustfeelsoaloneandsocoldandit’slikeyou’veallstoppedknowingmeespeciallyyouI’dhavethoughtyou’dhavespottedbynowandmaybeonceinawhilewhenICinderella’doutoftheresomeoneanyonewouldsay”Doyouwantcompany?”oreven”I’llcomewithyou”andI’llsaynogoandenjoythefungoandenjoytheshinyexcitingpeoplebutreallyImeanyesyesyespleasejustdon’tletmegotosleepyetagainforgottenandcoldandshiveringandaloneandI’msorrythatIcan’tsaythistoyouit’sjustIdon’twanttomoanandIdon’twanttopushwhatgoodcreditIdohaveleftbecauseIdon’tknowhowmuchIhaveanymoreandIknowIknowItalkalotaboutwhatbothersmeandItalkalotabouthowIjustdon’tfeelrightanymorebutIjustmissthedayswhenyou’dhugmeandnottheotherwayaroundandnotwhenI’mtryingnottocryortalkingandtalkingandtalkingbutinsteadwhenI’minthekitchenlookingforathingorjustwhenyouseemeattheendofthedayandIstillhavemybravefaceonandmaybeitwouldbebetterifIjustretreatedforawhilewhichI’mtryingtodoasItypeandfranticallytypebutthetroubleiswhenIretreatandhopethatsomeonewillcomeaknockingtosayhowareyouI’venotseenyouorhowareyoubecauseIthoughtyoumightbedownandIknowit’shardforyoutosayandIknowIliketotalkbutreallyIdon’tthinkIwanttotalkIthinkitmightbeOKifyoujustheldmeandholdmeandholdmewhilewewatchsomeTVorholdmeaswelaughaboutourdaysorjustholdmeholdmewhenIcan’tseepastthestorminsideofmyheadattheendofthedayandagainagainI’msorryI’msorrythatIsaythistotheinternetthatIcan’tjustcomeandsaytooneofyouanyofyouheythere’sthisthingandit’sbotheringmebutIjustfeellikealooseendandIdon’twanttobealooseendandIdon’twanttostandtoocloseandenvelopyouinthiscloudofcoldandemptyenvyanddarknessandlooseends.

Instead of this... numero 3

21)   ...be a video game designer.
22)   ...be a station announcer.
23)   ...be a glasses designer.
24)   ...be a shoe designer.
25)   ...be a nail technician.
26)   ...be a milkmaid (is this still a thing people do?)
27)   ...be a purveyor of fine herbs (again, I’m probably not thinking what you’re thinking)
28)   ...be a socialite.
29)   ...be a sofa surfer.
30)   ...be a coffee taster (only part time though.  My caffeine tolerance is abysmal)

Instead of this - part 2

   11)  ...be a dancer.

   12)  ...be a singer.

   13)  ...be a writer.

   14)  ...be a racecar driver (note to self: learn to drive.)

   15)  ...be an actress (damn missing those Star Wars auditions!)

   16)  ...be an astronaut.

   17)  ...elope with that guy from the tea shop.

   18)  ...be a children’s entertainer.

   19)  ...be an adult entertainer.

Out of Synch

Today, I’m out of synch.

The words don’t quite flow right,
                I don’t quite flow right.
And when I get up to dance at the end of the day,
It’s all slightly off
                                There’s not that rhythm to the sway.

As though there’s this natural rhythm
A shared pattern
A heartbeat, if you will
That determines when we speak in conversation
the track of our thoughts
the dance of two beings when we meet
And on any other day, I could be up there with the rest of them
Swinging through some jokes
A salsa through a flirt
Even a waltz through something more serious

But today, not today
I’m off.  A different time signature, or a faulty metronome, just a fraction of
                a second behind   everyone,       everything
else.
I can find the flow.
I’m just behind the beat
My tapping toes are at odds with that communal heartbeat.

And when I speak
And I try to make an impression
I try to spark bright  but not too hot
I’m just
  not quite
in the right
tempo.
I answer a question that wasn’t asked and was never going to be.
I make a joke based on a frame of reference familiar to no one in the room.
And I wonder if I’ve caused offence or just bewilderment and I assume the worst and I retreat and I hide behind a forced twee smiling shell and I worry and I shake and I stay silent for fear of anything and everything that I say and haven’t said and then it’s too late and too much and I just have to go.

Instead of this...

At the moment, my life seems full of minor existential crises.  What am I doing?  Why am I doing it?  Would I be happier if...?  My techniques of dealing with this are varied, weird and possibly unhealthy, but that’s not the topic of today’s brain splurge (mmm splurge).  Today, I thought I would just share with you a list of some of the varied occupations that I keep convincing myself would be a better idea than what I’m doing.  Like my list of reasons to procrastinate, I’ll post them in instalments of ten.  That way all of you, my wonderful readership of 2.3 people, will hopefully not be too bored by an enormous block of nonsense.

Anyway, enough gushing (ew) and on with the list. Enjoy.

1)    ...be a palaeontologist.

2)   ...be a human evolutionary anthropologist.

3)   ...be a librarian.

4)   ...be a trophy wife who is secretly Indiana Jones/Adèle Blanc-Sec.

5)   ...blog/vlog/art for a living (haha)

6)   ...be a make up artist.

7)   ...open a tea shop.

8)   ...open a bakery.

9)   ...open a wool shop.

10)  ...open a shop where I serve tea and cake as well as selling knitting and knitting supplies.

If you enjoyed any of these or feel you have something (really, please, anything) to say about them, don’t forget to leave a comment!

Sideways

After this, I am sideways
Never again, no more is hard to get my head around.
Observatory, crosswords, tea, wine, cigarettes, laughing, stern, good food.

And then the next day, everything is  the same, everything is different.  I feel like I've changed height, looking at everything from just slightly a different point of view.

There’s so much I want to say.  So much I’ll never ask.  But the words never make it out of my head.

Whilst trying to be a productive human...

The coffee was a great idea, she said, twirling her baubles

Whilst on a wikipedia rampage

I don't want to disambiguate reality!

After the cabaret

Do you need to rub a magic lamp to get in?

At the cabaret

Are you suggesting he liked me because of my similarities to a dalek?

Lament/Torment (My best dreams)

My head, my heart, they are no longer in accord.
All because of you.
We don’t speak. I dare not even utter a hello, for fear it might upset that gentle balance that seems to have been constructed. 
I barely hear from you, of you, about you.
And yet still,
I can’t give up that hope.  When I’m walking alone or there’s a chill in the room all I can think is how wonderful it would be to be near you again.
The terror that I might see you.
On the bus.
On the street.
On the tube.
Consumes a trip to the centre of town.  Makes me quiet, but not calm.  With a twitch in my neck to see who is around.
The marvel and anticipation of you at a party held by a mutual friend.

Maybe we’ll mend that bridge
Maybe we’ll fight, rip out each others hair like we’ve already ripped out each others hearts, but we’ll feel better for it.
Maybe we’ll just exchange greetings, like the adults we’re pretending to be.

Because my best dreams are of you forgiving me, feeling your wirey, sure arms around me, the soft heat of your cheek and maybe, maybe if I’m lucky, if I’m good, then I’ll catch sight of that smile.

I don’t think I ever did justice to that smile.

The party happened. We saw each other.
 We were mature.
 I think.
 Maturity is a strange concept to me these days.
 The sight of you holds such splendid pain and yet still just sitting next to you holds an instinctive comfort.   I’m sorry it’s not the same way for you. I resolve to be better, better than ever, because I’m still in disbelief at what I have done.

But my better is never going to  be right for you. 
Just look at you. 
You’re flourishing without me.  Had I been holding you back all this time?  When you were so sad, so worried, so much in need of help that I disgustingly didn’t give, was I at the source all along?

You tell me about how you felt before seeing me. 
Crushing small objects,
                            ripping your thumbs.
I hope to whatever powers that be that I never tell you my side.   You don’t want to hear what my heart has to say to you now.
You’re healing.
Keep on with it.  Keep going forwards and upwards and for Pete’s sake be happy.
Be happy
     be happy
          be happy
               be happy
                    be happy
                           be happy because at least if you’re happy then that part of me that still, still punishes me for what I have done will let me get to sleep at night.

Because it’s not peaches and sunshine over here, my dear.  There are so many strands of different lives I’m trying to lead going round and round and round in my head that I’ve lost the ability to shove them together into some semblance of being me.   I’m losing my memory and my words and my willpower and my loyalty and my ability to think of the other people in the room without stopping still in order to do so.  So much of my  time is taken up with things that just fill the time until I can respectably try to sleep and escape  into that dream again. 

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop  saying:
I’m sorry.