So many nights I would lie awake in bed, looking blankly into darkness because my thoughts would not let me sleep. I would think about how much better it was when the hours mattered not, when I could get up at 2 or 3 or 4 and trap my heartache on the pages of my life’s record. After a good admission would come that relieving feeling of resolve, bringing deep slumber with it. The demons were caged and something close to the value of justice made my eyelids heavy and happy.
Tonight I am not going insane in my bed as the hours slowly give way to thoughts so jumbled that I eventually pass out from sheer confetti. There is no Must, there is no Have To keeping me from emptying out at a forbidden hour. The stomach cramps began and I refused the painful death of embracing the notions that caused them.
I’m here, again, Dear Diary.
And I’m afraid. The path I chose has lectured thoroughly on the fear. Part of me is disappointed because I never used to worry about the things I knew to be ridiculous, let alone about the things that proved to be horrible. It seems that change is a forced thing in my life; I never pick it out like a soda pop. And when it is time, it is always a matter of sink or swim.
Every boat is going down.
Something funny about that is how I was just deflating my brother’s air mattress this afternoon. After I pulled the plug I laid back in the center of the double high queen and listened to the air rushing out. It sounded like a vent. I watched my arms get higher as the rest of me was lowered to the floor. My heart sped up a bit at the thought of it: this is what it’s like to go down with the ship and this feels exactly right, to me.
It was too soon to know what would happen but I played it out like rehearsal.
All I could think about tonight was the empty page waiting, the only thing that has nothing to do with another dimension of hell waiting to be lived. I wish I could sing on here forever, sometimes, but…I eventually get…