Insomnia - Oct 11 2022

 

Insomnia

Oct 11 2022

Behind the black-out blinds

I know enough to give it time,

but still

my eyes won't adjust

to the utter darkness.

So I feel my way,

stumbling about

hands out-stretched

as if probing for unexploded bombs,

bumping into walls,

bashing battered shins,

dashing lamps to the floor.

Until eventually finding the bed,

relieved

to slip between

its cool crisp sheets,

in my darkened room

snugly cocooned

under warm heavy covers.

A glimmer of light

leaks in one edge,

body heat

warms the sheets,

and the beat of my heart

thumps in the ear

that nestles against the pillow.

As if returning to a womb

I don't even remember.

But can imagine a reddish glow

diffusing through the skin,

the muffled notes

of a mother's voice,

and the sound of blood

pulsing through her veins

in a steady soothing rhythm.

I drift

into deep untroubled sleep

and awaken restored.

Still dark, in the morning,

and who could tell

if I've slept 9 hours

or been gone 9 months.

If sleep is a rehearsal of death,

each night

a small glimpse of oblivion,

then rising from its depths

is to be reborn.

So I feel for the insomniac

who cannot surrender,

fighting sleep

and failing harder

the harder she tries.

The light of day

hurts her tired eyes,

and darkness is merely a limitless place

for a racing mind

to rage

and ruminate.

So she sleepwalks through each day

desperately seeking rest;

a half life

of dulled awareness

that’s more like slow death.

A delirium

of long days

of painful light,

and endless nights

of uncertain murk

tossing and turning in bed;

when it's too light for sleep,

too dark to feel safe.

The guy came today to repair my new blinds. They're not perfect, but dark enough! So I put down the first line, and then — as usual, with no outline or objective — just riffed. As always, where it goes is as surprising to me as I imagine it is to the reader!