I sit here, naked but for a cloak of darkness, the only source of illumination being mine computer screen.
I can’t sleep.
It’s past 2AM, and as I lay in bed, having finally convinced myself that I was in fact alone and that no, no one was going to come home no matter how long I waited, I wondered: should I put on some music?
“No,” I said to myself, “it is past your time of bed and time you went to sleep.”
“Well,” I then said to myself, “what shall I do?”
There was no answer.
So, I lay there, quite still, blinking and staring at my dark ceiling, half-formed thoughts bubbling to the surface of my mind. I found myself pondering an empty and quiet house, and found myself lonely and lacking, missing especially the heat of mine lover beside me.
That thought in mind, it was with half-detached surprise that I found myself attempting to sleep on my back, and began to wonder what, right now, you yourself were doing. How were you sleeping, if in fact sleep had yet found you? Were you positioned as I was, though your eyes were closed? Or were you propped on your side, gazing through closed eyes out open windows into starless night?
Possessed of these thoughts, I found myself waking, if ever it can be said I have slept thus far tonight, naked and wandering down lonely corridors to this box. Here, I etch out these thoughts as fast as I can type, promising myself that I shall not, will not, definitely cannot go back and edit, let alone read, what I have written. (note: I have in fact gone back and read, most definitely, and edited, some)
For, once having bled myself free of these rambling thoughts, I can at last find myself unfettered and able to join you in peaceful slumber, though kilometers separate us.
An empty house is a funny thing, a sad thing. I miss the small sounds of the night, of floors creaking and water running and gentle steps and soft light of televisions filtering down steps under cracked door. I miss the comfort of presence of other individuals, though long for the freedom of my own abode. I miss myself, on nights like tonight, for so often I find myself defined by those around me. Suddenly lacking context, I wonder as to who or what I am.
A voice in the night pipes up, “Yourself, silly. You’re you,” to which another answers, “Perhaps. But who’s that?”
Me, I suppose. Just me. Diarrahetic and naked, for I am unable to stop typing and wear no clothing and am baring my mind to the world, and tired, for I seek the release of slumber.
I am unhappily single-minded right now — all I can think of are words and letters and and THINGS like this sentence, ideas and concepts that flow from my mind to fingers to this screen that don’t go anywhere! Funny, I never imagined thought to look like this — white on black and so small, so insignificant. Thoughts aren’t meant to be this ordered, this easily captured and glimpsed. Memory’s a funny place; I can barely remember a…
Wow. My train of thought just broke, and I think I’m done for tonight. I am half-tempted to delete this entry without posting, yet, I suppose that this is what blogs are for.
Funny, that.
Hi, love!