wild_zero

sometimes, i'm there in my bed at night, and can't get to sleep. i'm thinking about anything in particular. it's more like i'm in this exercise that i like to do where i try and detach myself from my body. sometimes, i can see myself lying there, fast asleep, snoring like a fool (i snore terribly, i'm told - no, i've experienced mornings where i wake up on an unusual floor because somebody has shoved me off the bed - snoring is what indicates to others that i have either passed out or i'm so at peace and trusting that it will actually happen. more often than not, i don't sleep in the company of another, and the snoring is absent - it becomes a rude awakening when the muffled breathing breaks through and disturbs sleep that somebody realizes i'm an entity next to them, alive and finally sleeping soundly in their company).

so i watch myself snore sometimes, thinking all these things, and i walk away from myself. it's interesting, but i'm mostly running through my own routine: wake up, destroy the alarm several times, brush my teeth, shower, and face the hunger and decide where to go. i get in my car, and i'm driving around, perfectly aware i'm not actually in my car and my body has been left snoring on my bed. my ghost-self orders a bagel from ghost clerks or i wander into the majestic as my ghost-self and i sit down and read my ghost-book. it's always by some unusual and undefined author, and the words make no sense and lack content. like phrases out of thin air, without meaning and context. i wait forever for the staff to notice me; but how could they? i'm a ghost-self - in a booth that is empty to them. i starve for hashbrowns and they don't even bring me water or set down silverware.

i keep my notebook with me, to write in. sometimes, in the morning, i try to find the notebook but it's never the same color or i recognize it and i've only written what i've left before in it.

and i'm unusually empty. there's this part of me that keeps writing, keeps thinking, while i sleep soundly, snoring in my own bed. it's like i never stop wandering, never stop writing - this contiguous dialogue just keeps going and i have no control over it. my soul wants a bagel or some hashbrowns and i can't stop it. and it keeps writing; somewhere, somewhere in my head it's writing something down and i can never remember what i'm writing about in the morning. my notebooks are empty.

and that's where it gets weird. i start to think that perhaps i have done these things - have been sleepwalking and some of my writing is a real artifact in these notebooks, not just a conscious act. that perhaps what i've written was by this wandering soul. i read some things and they seem to fall into this category. i pore over my old writing and i can no longer say, with certainty, i wrote this wide-awake. perhaps, i wrote this while trapped in a dream dimension of my own subconscious creation. my own words seem dead and foreign to me.

so i struggle with that aspect of myself.