booktowrite

Why am I incapable of sleep? Why am I not consumed by sleep the way I am consumed by thoughts of those I have loved and lost? Such an innocent thing as a short afternoon nap eludes me for I am haunted by thoughts and ideas and recollections of events and conversations. I work through the patterns of words, try to make sense of your choice of grammatical effects and of tones. I recall all of the things that were worn, the way we embraced and how what we had was born and how it died. I try to clear my mind of all once more in that elusive search for sleeps sensual grasp but all attempts fail and I find myself disturbing the cat as I turn one way and then the other before pulling up the covers and moving my legs. I reach out for a book and begin to read but four or five pages in I am too tired to continue. I realise there is no use and so I get up, step back into the pile of clothes that I left on the floor no more than an hour ago, and walk downstairs. The silence of the house screams at me again and I long for music, I long for film, I long for a book I cant quite decide which one I want more and so I linger in a state of bewilderment and inactivity. I start to wonder what youre up to. What has been happening in your life. Who youve been seeing and what you have been thinking about. What films you have watched and which songs youve listened to. Were all alone. Some in peace, some in tension. Only for fleeting moments are there moments of joy and connection and often those moments would destroy so many others if only they knew about them.