Shoo, shoo, you thoughs and buts, not a word, I am in sleep’s good graces! And, after months of weightlessness, no consequence, more shade than real, I’ve started to fill out a little, materialise.
Last year has shaken, no: nearly untethered me. I say this now, anxious to swirl away insomnia’s worst; safe distance, I declare, and dance a pretty pirouette where past and present fork. The days when I well-nigh stopped wanting – no further than a stone flies; when the desperate need for sleep infested all – hope, wishing, enterprise, and only writing bumbled towards maybe, conceivably.
I do sleep better, occasionally even well. Still, buts and thoughs spit admonitions. Desire and energy grow at wildly disproportionate rates; frustration keeps a tally. I have my moments (the early morning-kind), but fatigue has dug its heels in, and heart stops time with sudden surges. Half of me would like to lock the door, hole up with comrade sleep until I’m sure she’ll never leave; the other half is rearing to go, join a race, a rave, a raucous, preposterous, abandoned thing. I have a foal in me! And a Cassandra.