Chicago’s annual book fair started yesterday. Jen and I had a great time trawling through stacks of books, and enjoying the wonderful weather that happened to grace the event. Jen especially was enamored with the presence of the infamous Ella Jenkins. Unfortunately Jen’s new camera was still a thing of wonder and unfamiliarity, so of course Murphy’s Law loomed ominously. Jen missed a rare opportunity to get her picture taken with Ella, simply because she forgot the Lithium battery for her new camera, at my apartment. It’s a shame, but somehow I think she’ll get another chance, especially with her involvement with the IMEA.
Today, I sit numbly on my couch, reading a dusty old book with a light head, a box of tissues nearby, and hot eyes behind drooping lids. I despise being sick. I would be in bed now, but for work tomorrow, and the incessant fear I’ll be unable to sleep later tonight. What kind of twisted deity combines a heavy sleeper with a turbulent imagination and fevered mind? Sometimes my presence in bed seems split evenly between waiting to sleep, and being dead to the world. Even after three days without rest, I could spend the better part of an hour waiting to lose consciousness. It’s as if my brain refuses to lose control, and bathe in the chaotic streams of the subconscious. It must be tricked, lulled into a hypnotic trance by ideal and contrived circumstances forged through meditative techniques.
My subconscious is equally voracious for perpetual control. Once I am asleep, I experience hours of REM, dreams both real and fantastically absurd as it competes for my attention beyond its allotted period. It tricks my concious mind repeatedly, successfully wrenching focus back to psychotic hallucinations and serial episodes spanning years. In that limbo when I finally break the spell, where both rational and irrational call an uneasy truce, the cycle starts anew.
Well, fuck you, brain. Let me rest, and abjugate me from this perpetual and fruitless battle of wills. If only I knew the secret to quieting the cacophony of thought which has plagued me since birth. Maybe a good forehead-to-a-nearby-wall would teach you to respect my authority! Have at you!