Snow White. Sleeping beauty.
Rip van Winkle.
Why do they get it, cold, still repose? My body aches for deep sleep. My mind is throbbing. It's been about five days.
What I wouldn't give for just a few hours of death-like slumber.
To not see pictures in my eyelids every time I close them, unsettling dreams rattling my bones, jolting my brain waves from REM.
Up, down, up, down. Like a seismograph in an earthquake, the shaking ground after an explosion.
I must find a bomb shelter soon.
Maybe it's a week for a disturbed subconscious. Or maybe it's because it's the beginning of a month.
Maybe I read too much or think too much or indulge too much in Scriabin. Maybe this is the result of spending too much time in an alternate universe.
Maybe this is what happens when you shirk reality. It seeks revenge.
Or maybe it's just because the weather's getting warmer, because all that died in the winter is coming back to life.