Those sleepless nights - 2
Here I am, lying on an unfamiliar bed, with two stuffed animals as my pillows, and sleep seems to not want to see me tonight again. I'm grateful for a place to sleep, but this city, this bed, they all unsettle me a little (has anyone seen the Benedict Cumberbatch SNL monologue?).
Memory is like one of those things that just keep coming back to haunt you, and your perception of them simply changes so much hinging on your circumstances. The sweetest memories may turn sour in the face of your changing life, and the darkest memories may make you more grateful for where you are right now. I suppose it's the changing perspective that alters your perception of them. That's rather obvious, isn't it?
I roll left, and I roll right. I roll left again, and I roll right. The cycle perpetuates, ceasing to end. Why can't I yet fall into that sweet state of unconsciousness, of unruly thoughts and conflicting dreams? Maybe not that. But my body demands sleep, and my brain, well, it's having its own fun journey around the street corners and alleyways.
As a spectator, I've always liked rain. Sitting quietly inside a cozy room, looking out into a grey world with falling droplets producing echoes of themselves, pure bliss. But simply remembering how much I hate walking in the rain, this all seems self-conflicting. Somehow, I am able to reconcile the two diametrically opposed emotions in some nonsensical way. Indifferent to my existence, the rain will always go on, violently but soothingly.
The birds are chirping, the sun is slowly climbing out of its sleeping hollow, and I see rays of light making their ways into this strange room. Coming to think about it, I don't think I've ever had a good night of rest in this town. Something persists in this restless self, something anxious yet foreboding. Reduced to such a primal state of being, the self seems unable to grasp the purpose of anything.
Do you remember that night? Oh yes, a little crowded and noisy. We both felt a little nervewracking, no? The billiard balls make their encounters with one another so uneventfully, yet the sequence of events that unfolds from two balls hitting each other was remarkable. Two hopeful souls, a little drunk on the moment, looked out for something that hopefully paved its way for more.
I've given up at this point, accepting the ruining of a day and another. Maybe I need to find somewhere else tonight to sleep, or simply something somewhere entirely new. Wait, why aren't the birds chirping anymore?
And I roll some more, left to right, right to left, and left to right, right to left...
Memory is like one of those things that just keep coming back to haunt you, and your perception of them simply changes so much hinging on your circumstances. The sweetest memories may turn sour in the face of your changing life, and the darkest memories may make you more grateful for where you are right now. I suppose it's the changing perspective that alters your perception of them. That's rather obvious, isn't it?
I roll left, and I roll right. I roll left again, and I roll right. The cycle perpetuates, ceasing to end. Why can't I yet fall into that sweet state of unconsciousness, of unruly thoughts and conflicting dreams? Maybe not that. But my body demands sleep, and my brain, well, it's having its own fun journey around the street corners and alleyways.
As a spectator, I've always liked rain. Sitting quietly inside a cozy room, looking out into a grey world with falling droplets producing echoes of themselves, pure bliss. But simply remembering how much I hate walking in the rain, this all seems self-conflicting. Somehow, I am able to reconcile the two diametrically opposed emotions in some nonsensical way. Indifferent to my existence, the rain will always go on, violently but soothingly.
The birds are chirping, the sun is slowly climbing out of its sleeping hollow, and I see rays of light making their ways into this strange room. Coming to think about it, I don't think I've ever had a good night of rest in this town. Something persists in this restless self, something anxious yet foreboding. Reduced to such a primal state of being, the self seems unable to grasp the purpose of anything.
Do you remember that night? Oh yes, a little crowded and noisy. We both felt a little nervewracking, no? The billiard balls make their encounters with one another so uneventfully, yet the sequence of events that unfolds from two balls hitting each other was remarkable. Two hopeful souls, a little drunk on the moment, looked out for something that hopefully paved its way for more.
I've given up at this point, accepting the ruining of a day and another. Maybe I need to find somewhere else tonight to sleep, or simply something somewhere entirely new. Wait, why aren't the birds chirping anymore?
And I roll some more, left to right, right to left, and left to right, right to left...
love the mood in this one
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